


Not Tonight

by Many_Impossible_Things



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, I stand tall atop the Kastle I have built, Post-Season 2, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Many_Impossible_Things/pseuds/Many_Impossible_Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She hadn't seen him since that night on the roof with the ninjas and Daredevil and the weirdness that was just her life. Even if she wouldn't admit it…she'd worried. Because Frank Castle deserved to have someone worry about him." Basically 12 months of Kastle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January

**Author's Note:**

> As it happens, this story is also over on FF for anybody who reads on both. Somebody mentioned the fandom was a bit more robust over here, so I decided to branch out a bit. It's complete, coming in around 60,000 words, and I'll post a chapter every day or so, give me time to do final proofs and whatnot. Well, thanks so much for reading, leave a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoy. :)

January

Karen's feet were slowly dying as she further shouldered her bag and trudged up the third flight of steps that would leave her at her floor. She'd upgraded from her dump of an apartment—where the landlord refused to even fix the high caliber bullet holes in the walls unless she paid for it—but she wasn't quite to a building with an elevator yet. If she didn't retain a healthy fear of toxic debris on the stairs, she'd have slipped off her heels as soon as she was in the door.

It had been a long day, a long week. Chasing down leads hadn't necessarily been hard, but shit had it been tiring. She was doing a lot of walking these days, again without a vehicle as she was. But she liked it. She liked her new job, the purpose that came with it. As much as she still achingly missed the times with Matt and Foggy, having that support system, so directly being involved in helping people, she liked where she'd gotten.

In just the few months since Frank Castle had come to Hell's Kitchen, since she'd held onto finding the truth with both hands and Nelson & Murdock had taken on the trial of the century that would spiral them into extinction, she'd changed. She couldn't be quiet, timid Karen who appreciated having Foggy or Matt to hide behind if she wanted—or didn't want—and filed files and made coffee and convinced them to take cases. She'd grown out of some of that and she didn't mind. She actually reminded herself of Ben sometimes. That made her proud and her sore feet worth it. Sometimes, she just wished being like Ben wasn't so to the bone exhausting…and scary…and lonely.

Looking up and down the hallway before putting her key in the lock, she didn't release the yawn desperately clawing to get out until the door was closed and dead-bolted behind her.

Running a hand through her hair, she flicked on the light while covering another yawn. She was just about to set her bag down when she saw the shadow just outside her window. Her pistol was immediately in her hands. They still shook slightly, but she didn't really see herself getting over that particularly soon. The shaking hadn't impeded her aim before.

Gun still in front of her, she crept toward the window. What she saw sitting on her fire escape nearly knocked the air from her chest.

"F-Frank?"

She'd recognize the haircut anywhere, the set of the shoulders. Feet propped up against the railing, he didn't look like he minded the subzero temperature in the slightest, nor did the assault rifle across his lap. She could just see the white of the skull on his Kevlar in the city's night glare. His face was too much in the dark to see its state, but he didn't look particularly hurt.

A weight of relief she hadn't realized she'd been carrying immediately dropped from her chest and into her tired feet. She hadn't seen him since that night on the roof with the ninjas and Daredevil and the weirdness that was just her life. Even if she wouldn't admit it…she'd worried. Because Frank Castle deserved to have someone worry about him.

Letting the gun fall to her side, she pushed the window up and stuck her head out. "Frank?"

"Ma'am." He didn't so much as turn to look at her, still staring out at whatever he was watching. His voice was still deep and gravelly, but a bit less raspy than last time. She imagined his throat had healed up some.

Crossing her arms at the chill, she heard the words coming out of her mouth without really deciding to say them, "Do you want to come in? It's cold."

He didn't answer and she sighed slightly. Stubborn, pain in the ass man…

Flicking the safety on her gun, she opened the window further and started the awkward process of climbing out. Nearly falling on her face when her heel got stuck in one of the grates, she tore her shoes off and absently threw them back inside. Their clattering on the fake wood floor was the only sound other than the traffic below as she settled in beside him, gun in her lap, arms across her chest.

"How have you been, Frank?"

"Just fine, ma'am."

There was zero readable emotion in his voice. Fine was a copout word anyway, but he was making sure she didn't know. She couldn't tell if he was mad at her and shutting her out or just putting shields up for his own protection. She was trying to figure out a way to see which when he spoke again. "You make a habit of talking to dead men, ma'am?"

There it was. And she really couldn't blame him for not being sure where she stood. She'd been pretty emphatic last time…

"Unfortunately, this dead man has a history of miraculously starting his heart back up, to hell if I'm angry at him." Smiling faintly, she wasn't sure if the spurt of air that came out of him was a laugh he didn't quite get stopped or just him breathing, but she was hoping it was the former. She didn't wait to see which before pressing on. "I'm sorry, Frank, for saying all that that night."

For the first time, he turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised in confusion. Aside from a shiner on his right eye, she noticed his face was for the most part unharmed. It added to that relief pooling in her stomach from earlier.

"It took me a little bit to get it, but I realized that you must've already figured it out, why he targeted your family. You already knew so you didn't need information. All that was left was to kill him. I won't bug you to tell me, but I'm glad you got your answers and I'm sorry for what I said." When it came to the colonel, she knew that's how he'd seen it. He'd been the head of the snake and Frank's whole quest had been to cut it off...and slaughter all the parts connected to it. She didn't necessarily have to agree with it to know that's how he saw it, to be unhappy with how the night had played out on her part. She ran her hand through her hair again, pushing it out of her face to hide how her hands were shaking. "In my defense, I'd just been hit by a truck and dislocated shoulders hurt a lot more than I thought they would. I was a little slow on the uptake. And...I was just tired of people dying."

"It okay?" he asked in his low voice. "The shoulder."

"Yeah. It's fine." A quick trip to the ER to get it hauled back into place and some Tylenol had set her right. She hadn't even needed a sling, just been told to go easy on it. Being kidnapped by ninjas a few days later hadn't done wonders for it, but she'd survived. She always did. Suddenly feeling the need to shift whatever it was they were having to something lighter, she looked to his arm right beside her. Pointing at it, she asked, "Are you hurt here at all?"

His eyebrow rose again. "No."

"Good." Without much actual power, she punched his bicep and accused, "You totaled my car, Frank!"

His chest shaking slightly beneath his body armor, she could tell he was laughing this time. Leaning her head back against the brick of the building, she smiled.

Her toes were beginning to ache with cold and she hadn't had supper yet, but Karen didn't move even as his quiet chuckling subsided and they fell to silence again. She missed this…just sitting with someone she trusted, she liked, who made her feel that much safer in her ridiculous world.

"Why are you here, Frank?"

She was saying his name a lot and she wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe saying it out loud made it that much more real that he was actually there, sitting on her fire escape after six weeks of nothing. She'd thought he was dead once before. She hadn't liked the feeling. Maybe it was because she doubted he was hearing his name from anyone else these days. Either way, she liked saying it.

"You're being followed." He nodded down toward the street where a car was parked, two occupants in the front seat. She didn't recognize it and couldn't make out anything about the two men, but she did memorize the license plate number. She'd done a couple of articles since Christmas that could've pissed people off. She wasn't sure which one the people down there were angry about. It didn't really matter.

"I'll call the cops in the morning and give them the plate number."

Even as she mentioned the cops, her eyes glanced down to her gun for a moment before flicking over to Frank. He was staring at her with those intense but unreadable eyes again. Logic was telling her to be afraid, be scared. Those eyes were somehow telling her not to be. And she was as careful as she could be, she knew that. A little fear couldn't keep her from doing her job, from exposing the truth.

She couldn't feel her feet anymore.

Shifting her pistol into one hand, she rose. "Come inside, Frank. It's cold." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile for a second, but he didn't move. "Come on, I haven't had supper yet. I'll attempt to cook."

The look on his face was one where he was trying to figure out how to tell her no without being overly rude. She wasn't sure why he was so reluctant, but she was cold and she was tired and, as ridiculous as it was, he was her friend. She wasn't just going to go about her night while he sat on the damned fire escape trying to keep her safe.

Rolling her eyes, she then narrowed them at him. "Frank, I am tired, so fucking tired. My feet would be dying if I could feel them. I've been chasing a serial domestic abuser for most of the week. If someone tries to shoot at me, just tackle me again. It'll be fine. Come inside and eat the food I attempt to make you. Please."

The side of his mouth quirked up, though he quickly ducked his head so she couldn't see it for long. "Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you."

Glancing back to make sure he was actually getting up, she somewhat gracelessly crawled back into her apartment. Kicking her heels out of the way and setting her gun on the bookshelf, she turned back to hold the window up while he climbed in after her. Without even thinking about it, she grabbed his assault rifle so he could steady himself with both hands.

It was heavier than she'd thought it would be and she couldn't keep herself from staring at it in her hand, her arm straining slightly to keep it up off the floor. Even more than with her pistol, she could feel the horrible power of it, was no longer was so awed by the holes it could leave in people. She felt a tad bit invincible just holding it and the thought scared her.

"Jesus…"

One of Frank's large hands appeared beside hers, taking most of the gun's weight. He was silently staring at her again. She hadn't quite decided if it made her uncomfortable or the opposite yet.

Letting out a breath and trying not to obviously falter as she pulled her fingers away, she turned and shoved the window down, locking it. "J-Just for my admittedly shaky peace of mind, where's the safety on that thing?"

The gentle expression returned as he held the gun on its side, the slot where the magazine went facing her. He pointed toward a small switch on the metal near the trigger. "Right here. It's not going anywhere."

Nodding, she let out a breath as he leaned it against the wall. She doubted that knowing where the safety was actually made her feel better. She did feel safer that he was the one dealing with it.

Forcing herself to stop staring at it—it was a gun, she slept with one of those on her nightstand, not as big a deal as she was making it—she pulled off her coat and walked it over to the hooks beside the door. "You allergic to anything?"

"No, ma'am. I'm a Marine. I'll eat anything."

She vaguely wondered if he was ever going to call her by her name.

"Easy enough," she replied with a smile that didn't feel so strange. She was at home. Her day was done. As bad as she was at it, cooking was normal and she craved normal most days.

And she wasn't alone. That was reason enough to be in a good mood.

"You've probably got time to shower if you want," she noted gently, trying not to look at him as she suggested it.

She caught the raised eyebrow he sent at her anyway. "You saying I smell, ma'am?"

"I'm saying you have blood on your nose…and your knuckles and your neck and," she took a step closer and went on her tiptoes, "I think there's some _in_ your ear."

She was teasing the man about being covered in blood. Blood that wasn't his. Blood that he'd forcibly beaten out of people…who probably deserved it. Karen was far too worn-out to dwell on the morality of it.

"Alright, ma'am."

Fighting a yawn, she nodded toward her bathroom, "Towels are in the cupboard over the toilet."

With the purposeful, thudding steps she'd come to associate with him, he crossed the space, stopping in the doorway of the bathroom to unlace and take off his boots and put them on her shoe mat. His heavy black coat went above it on the hook right next to hers. It took up so much space it practically covered hers. His Kevlar went on the floor beside his boots, next to where she'd dropped her work bag full of files.

It was strange, having another person in among her things, her home. Foggy had been busy with his new job on the day she packed up her meagre belongings and moved. She and Matt still hadn't really been talking at the time. This was the first time anyone but her elderly neighbor had been inside.

When she realized she was staring at him, he was already gazing back. She gave a small smile before turning toward the corner of the studio apartment that doubled as her bedroom. The bathroom door shut a moment later and she hastily climbed out of her pencil skirt and blouse. A hoodie she lazed around the house in and a pair of leggings were the first things she found on top of her dresser and she hauled them on as fast as humanly possible. Glancing at the wall with the bathroom on the other side of it, with Frank on the other side of it, she shrugged to herself.

She was tired. It didn't honestly matter.

Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra and pulled it off under the sweatshirt. She was done with it for the day.

Feeling like a person again rather than a mass of skin held together by cotton and elastic, she made for the kitchen. She was peering into her refrigerator, trying to figure out something she wouldn't mess up too badly, when Frank's voice rumbled through the bathroom door, "Do you have anything that won't make me smell like a woman?"

For whatever reason, she couldn't hold back the bark of laughter that escaped. Snatching up the only other soap in the apartment, she leaned against the doorframe and held out her lemon scented dish soap without looking inside.

He grumbled under his breath and she couldn't make out what he said, though if she were to take a guess it sounded like something along the lines of 'smart ass'.

"You know, people aren't going to stop running from you in terror when you find them in a dark alley just because you smell like coconut." She wasn't going to apologize for her body wash choices.

She heard the huffing sound that she'd realized was him quietly laughing before he noted, "My wife had a bunch of coconut shit. She had this lotion that I hated. It made the whole damn bedroom smell. But I'll be damned if I hadn't actually missed it when I got home and our bed smelled like it."

Pulling the dish soap back to her chest, she glanced into the bathroom before she could remind herself not to. He was still fully clothed, so she didn't immediately avert her eyes once she realized what she'd done. He was staring at the bottle, sad smile on his face that she'd seen before that first day in the hospital.

"She had good taste," Karen offered, making his eyes jump over to her. The sadness that stared back at her speared her right in the chest. That, that look, was why she had believed him. No one could fake that look. "I'm sorry. I don't have anything else."

"It's alright. Soap is soap," he replied, setting the bottle back down and starting to pull off his socks. She took the hint and pulled the door closed and retreated to the kitchen.

Another thorough search of her fridge indicated that she was going to be making mac and cheese. It was one of the few things she could successfully make from scratch and she didn't feel like spaghetti or something frozen. She could be a normal human being and make dinner. She was still capable of that.

When she found the pull-apart cookie dough hiding on the bottom shelf, she smiled.

Fifteen minutes later when the shower turned off, she was perched on her kitchen stool, stirring the cheese sauce while reading the paper and drinking leftover coffee from that morning. Her batch of cookies was in the oven and the cooked noodles were in a colander in the sink. Frank emerged minutes later.

His face was clean in the light, the blood gone, but it made his black eye look all the worse. When she glanced down to his hands, his knuckles were in even worse shape. Internally cringing, she wondered if they were just constantly sore. She couldn't imagine. Her feet after a day in heels were bad enough.

With a nod, she directed him toward beer in the fridge if he wanted one and then dumped the noodles into the sauce. Without incident, she was soon sitting on her couch and watching the nightly news, eating macaroni and cheese with Frank Castle. Fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies were waiting for them on the counter. After the murder reports began, she changed to the first innocuous show she could find. Brady Bunch reruns were what came on the screen.

She doubted either of them was really watching anyway.

She could feel him eying her for a while before he broke the silence. Though he'd never been terribly prone to using it in excess except for that one time in the diner, she liked his voice. The colonel had mentioned impressions and the idea was so at odds with the man beside her at that moment, she almost couldn't imagine. She envied his family a little for having heard it so often, probably hearing him laugh with it. It would've been great for bedtime stories and cheering from sidelines. Maybe even making dinosaur noises… Karen effectively canceled her thought before she wondered at how his wife had heard it.

"How are you and Red?"

Turning, she frowned at him until she realized he was referring to Daredevil's costume, outfit, whatever was the right word.

"Oh, you mean Matt?" At his nod, she wondered aloud, somewhat incredulous, "Does he know you know?"

Frank shrugged, "Probably. I had him chained to a roof just a couple days before he showed up being my lawyer. He doesn't try to disguise his voice. I saw his face that night with the ninjas."

"You had him chained to a roof!" She only remembered to lower her voice halfway through her sentence. His smirk went unappreciated.

"Water under the bridge," he said with a shrug, smirk getting a bit more smug at her glare and subsequent eye roll. As she took another drink of coffee, he repeated, "So, how are you two?"

"We're not," she replied immediately, not needing time to know he was talking about their conversation in the diner. He'd had good points, every single one of them true, but that didn't change one very important thing. "The pain's only worth it if they love you back, Frank."

"Did Red tell you that?"

"He didn't have to. I could tell."

And she could. Something had broken between them on that front. She'd known ever since she saw the gorgeously exotic woman in his bed. At the time she'd just been upset, seeing the situation for what it looked like and being rightly angry. After—after the ninjas and he'd told her he was Daredevil and he'd so clearly been seeking just someone, anyone to wrap her arms around his problems and make them quiet for a little while—after all that, she'd realized that wasn't what made her so upset she was heartbroken. It was the so very blatant look of love and adoration, sheer and utter terror of something happening to the woman, in his blind eyes she'd never seen looking back at her. It wasn't that she didn't think he could come around to loving her, but she wasn't going to sit there on the line and wait while he moved on.

She deserved more than that. What was left of their friendship deserved more than her being relegated to second-best because his other choice was forcibly taken from him. She didn't want to be his only choice because the world had been cruel. She wanted to be the only one because he only wanted her. And besides, he'd kept secrets from her for a long time and she was still keeping one from him. She didn't quite trust her ability to stop or his.

"You sure about that? Red's a lot of things, but I didn't peg him for stupid."

Smiling into her mac 'n cheese, she didn't look up. "Thanks, but yeah, I'm sure. I think Matt either needs somebody who's just completely removed from that part of his life, hasn't been touched by that sort of dark and terrible," the face of James Wesley suddenly and painfully flashed through her brain, stabbing at her chest and snatching her air, shoving her face-first into the dark and terrible, "o-or somebody who completely gets it."

She could feel her hands starting to shake, her jaw faltering and she hoped with everything she had that Frank would attribute it to heartbreak instead of what it actually was as the deep black hole in her chest opened up and started trying to swallow her.

Logically, she didn't have any problems. The man had sat across from her, taunting her with the power he had over her, to kill everyone she held dear, just to kill her if he got annoyed with the extra effort. She wasn't wrong in what she'd done. But logic had very little power against the dark times of night that brought his face back, that made her claw at her chest in an effort to breathe. Logic was complete and utter shit when pitted against that kind of fear.

Forcing a smile against it, she concluded shakily, "I'm neither of those things. We're still friends."

Putting her bowl down, she quickly downed what was left of her coffee. Using it as an excuse to get up, she moved past him without acknowledging that he was pensively, intensely staring at her. Refilling the mug, she glanced fleetingly at him, "Cookie?"

Without waiting for his vague head jerk, she grabbed four and set them on a plate. When she curled herself onto the couch again, setting the plate between them, she was worried he would push. She'd never let anyone close enough to even have reason to push about Wesley, to suspect, but she could tell that he did.

Frank didn't talk much, she'd realized, because he didn't have to. He said most of what he needed to with gazes and looks and glares. If he didn't quit with the gentle, pensive stare boring into her soul, she was going to start sobbing.

"Whose car was it? You said you inherited it."

Karen let out a sigh of relief as she started on her second cookie. He wasn't going to ask. And somehow that was disappointing as well as comforting.

"A friend. His name was Ben Urich. He was kind of my mentor. I've got his old job."

"Was?"

With an again shaking hand, she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. "Yeah, he's dead. Wilson Fisk strangled him to death with his bare hands in Ben's living room."

"Is that why you cared so much?" Nonchalantly biting into a cookie, Frank was gazing at her again and though she didn't quite understand yet, his eyes were a lot more serious than his posture. He was asking a big question.

"Cared about what?"

"My family. Why they died. Why someone was covering up the truth. Was it because that asshole had murdered your friend?"

His voice was flat again, though she was getting more used to that. He was trying to sound less interested than he was. Maybe so she didn't feel pressured into an answer. Maybe so he could pretend it didn't matter that much to him. She knew it did, though.

Pondering her answer, they sat in silence for a while. She couldn't remember when, but Frank had turned off the television at some point and it was quiet. Except for his breathing. It was nice, having someone else there. Just as she opened her mouth to reply, she realized that it was nice having _Frank_ there.

The realization threw her voice off for a few words, but she wasn't sure it mattered.

"No, that's not why I cared. I still do." It was true. She still wanted to understand. Ben had taught her never to do anything half-assed. Frank Castle's family was still on her mind when she delved into new articles, new cesspools of criminal intent. "No, Ben died doing his job. He was one of the few people in the whole city who managed to actually scare Wilson Fisk. I'm probably sitting across from one of the only other ones."

When she flicked her eyes up, he had a grim sort of acknowledgement on his face. It held promise. If absolutely nothing else, Frank wasn't afraid of Fisk. It was comforting, like having her .380 in her hand when she couldn't sleep and Fisk was why.

"I care because what happened to your family almost happened to me." Her hand went up to her hair and she realized just how potent of a nervous tell it was. Before she could push it from her face, she lowered her arm back down and hugged it across her chest, forcing herself to make eye contact with his surprised gaze. Once she had it, she immediately knew that she was completely helpless to break it. She didn't want to because she loved how he stared into her soul.

"Fisk tried to have me killed. First he tried to frame me for murder. When Foggy and Matt got me off for that, he sent men after me. They broke into my apartment, almost killed me. Matt saved me. If he hadn't, I would've been just like your family: a little anecdote without any truth to it. I would've just been one more person killed from a home invasion or however they chose to paint it. Or I could've just been a body at the bottom of the Hudson. My death would've meant nothing and no one would have ever known the truth. No one would've ever been held responsible…punished. Your family deserves better than that. That's why I care."

He let out one of his breathy chuckles. "Well shit, I thought you were just unlucky getting yourself mixed up with me and Red."

Smiling, she shook her head, "Nope. Nosy, not unlucky."

When he looked at her again, she heard the words coming out of her mouth. "Frank, are you the one who burned your house down?"

"Being nosy again?" She raised an eyebrow at him in annoyance, making him smirk ever so slightly before he nodded solemnly. "Yes, ma'am."

"Why?"

Sighing, he pulled his limbs back toward him from where they'd been spread toward her coffee table and flung over the back of the couch, comfortable. Much like her, he crossed his arms over his chest. She watched as he leaned his head against the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

"I was still out of it when they were buried. One minute we're in the park, I'm holding my little girl's bloody body, my wife's screaming, and in what feels like the blink of a fucking eye I'm alone in the hospital and they're in the ground. That's the last way I saw them, bloody and dying, their insides spilling out like I was back in a damn warzone…"

He trailed off, but aside from leaning against the couch more, Karen did nothing, just looked at him as he tried to find words for something he usually used bullets to say. The tears that were only ever there because of his family were in his eyes when he tilted his head to look at her. They immediately triggered hers because there was just no way she could look at this man, this big, intimidating, almost inhumanly resilient man crying over his lost family and not join him because they were the most genuine tears she'd ever see.

"Everything that was our life was in that house and they were gone and I didn't…I hadn't been there to say goodbye. Our house was…"

"You gave them a Viking funeral," she volunteered.

Sniffing and wiping at his nose, he jerked a short nod, "Yes, ma'am."

"Did you take anything with you?"

She wasn't sure why, but she just had this gut feeling that if he'd taken something with him from that house that wasn't a gun or anger, then there was that much more left of Frank Castle in the man beside her. He needed as much of that as he could get. She'd always liked that quote that talked about staring into the abyss and eventually it would stare back. He wasn't just staring into that abyss; he was living in it and shooting everything that moved in the darkness.

"Yeah, I…I tried to leave it but I picked up my little girl's book. It was on the table in her room and…"

"The one with the bears on the front? I remember seeing it. Umm, it had something to do with batches?"

He looked back at the ceiling. "One Batch, Two Batch. It was her favorite book."

At that moment, Karen realized she'd never actually said it. It was one of the few topics they talked about, although tonight had broadened that pool somewhat. But still, she'd never said it just because it was true, without any other motive, and that immediately didn't sit right on her tired shoulders.

Leaning forward, for the first time without bullets flying through the air or playfully hitting him, she touched him. She curled her fingers around his bicep, or as much of it as she could at least, and waited for him to look at her. When he did, she felt that for perhaps the first time she was the one staring into his soul.

"I'm sorry about your family, Frank. I'm sorry they took them from you."

"Thank you."

She gave him a small, sad smile and a final squeeze before standing. Taking his dishes, she left the kitchen to be dealt with in the morning and moved to the bathroom to start brushing her teeth. She'd just spit out her mouthwash and was starting to take her makeup off when she realized he was staring at her again. As her mascara melted off and her couple freckles were no longer muted by her foundation, she glanced back at him in the mirror, wondering why he seemed…entranced of all things.

It wasn't until she was wiping off concealer and rubbing cleanser into her pores that she grasped that he'd probably watched a routine along the same lines as hers every day for years, however long he and his wife had been with each other. Once upon a time, he'd gone to bed watching the woman he loved take off her makeup and settle in to sleep. The last time he'd seen it was probably the night he got home, less than twenty-four hours before his family was murdered.

As poor a substitute as she probably was, she wouldn't take it from him. Without saying anything, she just finished with her routine, brushing her hair out and putting moisturizer on her face.

Coming out of the bathroom, she pressed her lips into another smile. "I'm going to get some sleep. You're welcome to stay if you need."

That pulled him out of his reverie and he promptly shook his head. "No, I have things to do. Thank you for dinner, ma'am."

"Of course. Anytime."

As she crossed the space to gather up her pistol and place it on her nightstand where it stood guard as she slept, she realized she meant it. She wouldn't mind spending another night in with Frank Castle in the midst of her ridiculous life. Taking her gun in her left hand, she hefted his off the floor with her right and held it as he pulled on his boots, armor, and coat.

When he took the rifle from her, he had another one of his unreadable expressions boring into her. The more he did it, the more she felt like someone was finally just seeing her without her having to say anything, without having to openly admit to the dark and terrible that lived within her. It was a bit addicting after keeping the secret for so very, painfully long.

Before she retracted her hand, before he had the full weight of the gun, his voice hit her ears. The rumble knocked the air from her chest and pulled a sob out of her throat.

"The part that hurts the most is keeping it inside, Karen."

Lip quivering, she couldn't pull her eyes away, shaken down to her poor feet that he'd just said her name and that he knew just what to say, even as she answered unsteadily, "Not tonight, Frank. Just," her voice broke," not tonight."

He gave a gentle nod, "Okay."

Then he had the gun fully in his grip and he was moving toward her door, about to leave her alone in the space. "Stay safe, Frank."

He smiled over his shoulder at her and in that moment, she wondered if she'd prefer him without the bruises or if they had somehow become a part of him that she'd miss. She knew she'd miss the teasing in his voice until she heard it again when he tossed back, "Yes, ma'am."

Then the door was closed and she was alone and she already sorely missed his presence, hated the sound of his heavy footfalls going the opposite direction.


	2. February

It was Valentine's Day and Karen had nowhere special to go as she walked down the sidewalk in her heels, briefcase in one hand and bouquet of flowers in the other.

She'd tried to have plans, but it was hard when she only had two friends to try and make them with. Foggy had been her first choice, go out and get some rebellious single people drinks. But he was taking out a woman from his new firm, Marci, for dinner and from the excitement in his voice over the phone, she wasn't planning on calling him later that night to see how it went. Because they'd been talking more in the last few weeks, she'd tried Matt. It probably would've been awkward, but she was willing to brave that. He hadn't answered, so she'd figured that vigilante justice didn't take holidays.

When she heard the footsteps behind her, she reconsidered.

Without turning around, just pulling out her keys to get into her building's front door, she said with a smile, "Hi, Frank."

"Ma'am."

Shifting her belongings, she handed him her flowers, "Hold these for me for a second? Somebody tried to break in last week and the door still kind of sticks because the hinges are a little off."

As she turned the key and started tugging violently on the door, he asked, "How'd you know it was me?"

"Your footsteps. That night in the hospital, I just heard them coming after me. Not in a hurry. Not stopping for anything. You on a mission. The sound stuck. Come on, you son of a bitch." With a final grunt of effort, she hauled the door open. Panting slightly, she took her flowers and asked with a smile, "Do you want to come up?"

In his heavy coat but without his skull-decorated armor, he was staring at her and she couldn't quite figure out what his gaze was trying to say before he gave a quick nod, "Yes, ma'am."

They climbed the stairs in silence and it wasn't until she'd dead-bolted her door behind them that he asked, "Who got you the flowers? Red?"

"Oh. No, it was my boss. Apparently I qualify as married to the paper and he thought I deserved some flowers from my spouse on Valentine's Day." Looking over her shoulder at him as she slipped her heels off, she smirked, "I'm not sure how I feel about that exactly, but I am a sucker for lilies."

He smiled back at her but it was pained and quickly faded.

Frowning, she took a step closer, searching his face beneath his hat. The left side was badly bruised again, a cut on his chin and a little bit of blood running down from a nick on his forehead. His knuckles were as bad as always and his fingers were twitching with the nervous energy he was filled with unless he was holding a cup of black coffee in his hands…or a gun.

His faraway gaze zeroed back in on her at the movement, but she didn't move away. Almost immediately, his eyes flickered away, looking at everything but her and the switching of roles wasn't lost on her. He was the one who stared unyieldingly, steadfast and sturdy until she gathered her courage from him. She took one more step toward him, close enough that he couldn't ignore her.

Reaching out and resting her hand on his forearm, she asked gently, "Frank, what's wrong?"

He blinked furiously for a few seconds, still avoiding her gaze, until she tugged on his arm. Her thumb had started rubbing back and forth on his sleeve and he stared at it until she prodded, "Frank, come on. Talk to me. Please."

"I…I wasn't home last Valentine's Day. I didn't get to give her flowers. Not roses because she thought they were unoriginal and never carnations because they were for prom night corsages, not a grown fucking woman who'd had two kids." She couldn't help but smile at the fond exasperation in his voice before he plunged on, "I didn't get to take her to the Mexican place she loved. She wore a red dress every year. She only did it because I liked it. She didn't even really like red, just liked the way I looked at her in it. I didn't get to figure out a way to get the kids out of the house on a week night. I wasn't there to hear my little girl insist on making the stupid pink cookies that come in a roll. I didn't get to hear my son complaining about how the whole thing was stupid and so were girls. He-He'd cringe and screw up his face every time I kissed my wife. He was in that phase. I-I didn't get to do any of that and now this year it's too late."

She could see the panic on his face, the all-consuming terror that what he had left of his family, his memories were slipping through his fingers. She was almost positive that the catch in her throat was visible and she didn't think the tragedy that was Frank Castle's family would ever not reach into her chest, take her heart in its claws, and squeeze until she was leaking tears at the pain of it.

Blinking against her own tears, words started coming out, "There's…There's a shady and probably not up to code Mexican place around the corner. C-Come have an enchilada or something with me and tell me about her. H-How did the two of you meet? How long were you together? What was she like? Everything you can remember."

For a long moment, he didn't answer, just stood there with increasingly shallow breathing and tears running down his face.

"Okay." He ran a hand down his face, blinking more and still staring at her hand on his arm. He glanced from it to her face and then nodded, "Okay."

She smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging way, "Okay. J-Just let me throw on some different shoes."

After running around Hell's Kitchen all day, she wouldn't have minded changing her clothes, but the thought didn't even garner an honorable mention as she squeezed his arm one last time and hurried over to her shoe mat. Leaving her heels where she'd dropped them to be dealt with at another time, she slipped her feet into the pair of flats she usually did her laundry in. The battered slip-ons were about ten years old and their stripes didn't match her work clothes, but she didn't really care.

Pushing her hair back, she smiled at him again. "Ready?"

Her body had been hesitating as she stood there, her hand wanting to reach out and take his arm, give him just a little bit of physical reassurance. When he gave an almost imperceptible nod, her hand moved. So lightly she was hardly even holding on at all, she took his upper arm in her fingers and opened the door for them both.

The restaurant was perhaps half-filled, most of the patrons watching an old soccer game on the single television. With a smile she hoped would outweigh Frank's intimidating space beside her, she greeted the middle-aged woman at the counter in Spanish. She wasn't a frequent customer, but she supposed the blonde who spoke fluent if hesitant Spanish was memorable when the woman greeted her by name and pointed them toward any of the empty tables.

Thanking her, she pulled Frank along with her, stopping at the booth farthest in the back with the wall behind it. It was the booth he'd chosen when they stopped at that diner and she guessed it was so he could have his back to a wall, safe and easily defendable.

He fixed her with one of his gazes again as she slipped into the opposite bench. She had yet to figure out what precisely he was looking for in her when he looked at her like that, but if nothing else it indicated he wasn't quite so deeply stuck in that hole inside him anymore.

The waitress woman appeared before either of them could say anything, directing her fast-paced Spanish to Karen. Ordering herself some tamales and a Coke, she looked to him. "What do you want? They've got just about everything. She recommends the tortas. Do you want a beer or…?"

"Whatever that was sounds good. And coffee. Just ask her to bring the pot, please."

She relayed that to the woman who smiled at them both before walking toward the swinging doors in the back and shouting to whoever was in charge of cooking. Karen couldn't help but laugh at the couple of swear words she caught.

"You speak Spanish?"

"Yeah, German sounded angry and French had too many vowels for my taste in school."

He chuckled at that, shrugging in agreement. "Fair enough."

The waitress returned with his pot of coffee and her soda before moving off toward the front again, yelling at one of the men spectating to get his feet off the bar.

Pouring himself a cup, Karen saw his hands steady, though his trigger finger continued to tap against the ceramic. She smiled faintly at it. It made her bizarrely happy when she noticed his quirks, when the man shone through whether he wanted it to or not. Twisting the top off her Coke, she looked up at him expectantly. "So what was she like? What was Maria like?"

He flinched when she said the name, but she held her gaze steady. Voice soft, she added, "I already know they had to be special. You wouldn't love them so much if they weren't. Who was the woman who could hurt you?"

Unsure which part had convinced him to talk to her, to open up, she let out a small sigh when he released a shaking breath, tapping faster on his coffee cup.

"Strong. She wouldn't take shit from anybody, me especially. We both knew I was the lucky son of a bitch who'd somehow convinced her to love me. She never let me be the asshole who forgot that." Her mouth pulled into a smile and he soon peeked one back at her. "You know, in-in all those old family tv shows, it's always 'your father will hear about this'. Shit, not in our house. I was the pushover. The kids both knew that they were going to have to deal with mom if shit went south. But at the same time she was the sweetest woman in the whole world, was the best mom any kid could ask for."

His voice got watery when he pressed on, "She-She'd make them some dessert that was their favorite every week. It didn't matter if they were in trouble or if she was busy or if they were annoying the shit out of her. There were always peanut butter cookies for Frank Jr. and that cake with the little colored pieces in the batter for my daughter. Always cupcakes and always with green frosting because dinosaurs. My daughter was just like her, just with a good bit of my crazy in her. It drove Maria up the wall and made her proud all at the same time."

Biting her lip to keep her smile from getting too big, she asked when he fell into a lull, "How'd you meet? Did you have one of those romantic comedy meetings that everybody makes you retell?"

For some reason, that sounded right to her. Even without ever having met Maria Castle, Karen had long ago realized that Frank and his wife were one of those everyday love stories that were always so much better than any movie or book because they were real and raw and perfect in their own fractured ways.

"No," he laughed, pouring his second cup of coffee. "My best friend and hers started dating. They always dragged the two of us along, trying to multitask spending time with each other and time with their friends. Annoyed the shit out of both of us until we became friends. We left them to make out in movies and went out with each other instead. Six months later they were broken up and we were together. Rest is history. There was no way I could've stayed just friends with her. She was too amazing. I was a goner from the beginning."

"When did you know?" Karen paused when the waitress came back with their plates. Thanking her, she waited until she'd gone back to the bar before adding, "People always say that you just 'know'."

He stared dubiously at his food with a raised eyebrow before answering, "You do, usually not right at that moment, but you look back and can say exactly when you figured it out. I knew when she asked me why the fuck I hadn't gotten around to asking her out yet. She was a catch and was fun to be with and nice to look at if she said so herself and I needed to get off my ass. Shit, I would've asked her to marry me right that second if I could've. I asked her to dinner instead."

As she snickered lightly into her first forkful of tamale, he demanded, "What the hell is this exactly?"

"It's a torta. Think of it as a Mexican steak sandwich. It's got lettuce and tomato and onion and whatnot." He poked at the bun a little, still unsure, and she rolled her eyes, "Here, you can have my tamales instead if you want. They're good."

"What the hell's a tamale?"

"I thought you said you took her to a Mexican restaurant. What did you even eat?"

"Tacos."

"Jesus," she sighed in exasperation that felt strangely refreshing. "Take a bite of both and I'll eat whichever one you don't want to. Tacos, Frank? Honestly."

He gave her that look for a moment while smirking at her, only breaking it when she pushed her plate toward him.

He wound up taking her tamales and she ate the torta without complaint and they fell into silence for the most part. She didn't mind it. She'd found that she didn't with Frank. She only had one other time to compare it to during which she hadn't been scared out of her mind or looking at him in an orange jumpsuit, but it was enough. It wasn't one of those things she needed prolonged exposure to know was good for her.

She was picking at the last pieces of tomato that had fallen onto her plate when he gently nudged her foot under the table. When she looked up at him, he nodded toward one of the men at the bar. He was no longer watching the game and once Frank pointed him out, she felt the chills sliding down her back at a man looking at her that way.

"What's he saying?"

Somewhat flustered, she paused to listen harder. The man obviously thought she didn't understand Spanish or he would've lowered his voice a little more. "Uh, well, he's saying some very imaginative things about my legs that I'm not going to translate. He's got a thing for blonde bitc—women. He's annoyed that you're sitting with me and thinks…Okay, that's enough of that shit."

Turning in her bench, Karen shouted at the man in Spanish until the waitress was joining her in scolding him and his friends were chuckling to themselves. Red in the face, he hurriedly apologized before turning in his seat to squarely face the game again. She heard a few mutters about crazy gringas but she let them go.

When she turned back, Frank was smirking at her beneath his hat.

Raising an eyebrow, she queried warily, "What?"

He shrugged innocently, "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Liar." He just flashed a grin at her again and she knew he was internally laughing at seeing her having tirades in Spanish. Narrowing her eyes, she got up, "Come on, taco man. I'm done if you are."

"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say."

"Shut up."

"Yes, ma'am."

She only barely reined in the urge to smack his arm. Catching the waitress's eye and then putting a twenty on the table once she nodded, Karen glared at him at her shoulder, "Wow, he was right. I never would've thought."

"Who was?"

"The colonel." He stiffened slightly, but she ignored it because she wasn't taking her thought where he probably thought she was. "He said you were funny."

Though she she vowed not to look back, she could hear, could feel, him start laughing beside her as they walked out onto the street again. Her resolve faltered almost immediately. It was too rare a sight, too precious to keep her eyes forward. Much like his tears, Frank's smile was infectious because just like his tears it was almost impossibly genuine.

As they walked, she was close enough that she could feel the short shotgun swaying beneath his jacket. She'd wondered what he'd been carrying and she felt better for it. Not for her own sake, but for his. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, he walked her up to her apartment, pausing at the door when she opened it and did her initial cautious look around, hand on her gun inside her bag. Dropping her keys on the counter, peeling off her coat, she glanced at him. He was staring and as usual, she wasn't sure at what.

The silence aside from her movements stayed until he asked gently with that voice that made her want to crumple to the floor and sob because he'd understand and it wouldn't have to be a dark and terrible secret she kept alone anymore, "Tonight better?"

If he hadn't asked in that voice, she wouldn't have immediately understood what he meant. Pursing her lips as the initial barrage of tears started, pain coiling in her chest and throat, she shook her head. No, not yet. "N-Not tonight."

"Okay."

Somehow, she knew he wasn't going to stay any longer, that he had 'work' to do. Smiling against the tears welling in her eyes that she'd vigorously wash away in the sink, she said simply, "Happy Valentine's Day, Frank."

"Thank you, ma'am, for helping me remember."

Her voice was still a little shaky and her eyes watery, but she managed a more solid smile at the words she'd heard what felt like years before. "You don't have to thank me for that. You don't thank friends for that."

He peeked that small, almost disbelieving smile up at her when he said, "Good night, Karen."

"Stay safe, Frank," she replied as she stepped up to the door, ready to lock it behind him.

"Yes, ma'am." He said in in the teasing way he had last time, the way he'd laughed at her in the restaurant, but it was replaced by something else when he added, "See you soon."

With a nod, she shut the door and locked it with both deadbolts. She didn't hear the heavy cadence of his steps until the second one had slid into place.

The next week when she got home from work at half past dead tired and ready to singlehandedly murder the loan shark targeting single moms she was chasing, she heard them again as she put the key into her apartment building's front door. She made Frank and herself tacos for late dinner as he showered off the blood and grime of the city and then sat watching late night television, no longer so tired down to her marrow. That night wasn't the one either. He appeared the week after, too. A different day, but he was there just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everybody, leave a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	3. March

The low but persistent knocking woke Karen up from a dead sleep, one that only almost forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation could give her. Snorting awake, she was immediately upright and had her pistol in her hand, pointed at the door.

The click of the safety and her own ragged breathing was the only sound for a long moment.

Then his voice rumbled through the door. "Karen. Karen, open the door. It's me."

Heart racing but still drowsy, instinct hauled her out of bed and had her running across the room, hearing something in Frank's voice she hadn't before: pain. Not the kind that had to do with his family, either. The other kind, the physical kind.

Habit made her look through the peephole for all of a nanosecond before undoing her locks and hauling the door open.

"Oh my God."

Her grip on the door tightened as her knees weakened and the back of the hand holding her gun came up to press against her mouth. An initial glance at Frank was enough to have her stomach turning. She wasn't sure how much of her nausea was purely because of the blood and gore standing before her and how much was because it was Frank's blood and gore.

She didn't give herself long to dwell on it as she opened the door wider, gently ushering him in. With a swift look down the hall and toward the stairs, she quickly shut and locked the door once more. More than that, she had no idea what to do except for stare at him wide-eyed and dying on the inside.

From beneath his coat, his rifle slipped from his grasp and she snatched at the bloody grip before it could clatter to the floor. There was blood and bits of hair and something mushy and greyish on the butt. She tried not to think about it as she leaned the weapon against her cabinets, put her pistol on the counter, and looked expectantly up at him.

He'd come to her for help and she was going to give as much of it as she could. He just had to tell her how.

"I-" he winced, the arm not held tightly to his chest going to his side. "I'm sorry. I would've taken care of it myself but I can't reach some of them. I'm sorry."

"No, no, i-it's fine. Just…"

She found herself having trouble making eye contact because her eyes were too busy seeking out all the blood and cuts and infant bruises and trying to keep herself from touching them. Finally, taking a deep breath that she immediately regretted as the smell of blood filled all five senses, she all but physically pulled herself together. Looking up at him, she said with a steady voice, "Just tell me what to do."

"Bathroom."

"Okay."

Karen tried to help him cross the space to her tiny bathroom, but she got the feeling he didn't really need it. He was too fucking stubborn to need help staying upright from anybody. Seeing him so clearly hurt and only having her to help him, the thought was actually incredibly comforting. It was nothing he couldn't handle. He just needed help to reach. His very life wasn't dangling from her shaking fingers.

Wordlessly, she helped him shed his coat and Kevlar once they were in the bathroom. With a grunt, he nodded to his coat, "The left inside pocket there's a first aid kit."

She pulled it out before putting the bloody parts of his uniform in the bottom of her shower. When she turned around, he was hissing as he peeled his long-sleeved thermal off his body. He somehow seemed bigger without all the layers, an even bigger mass of skin and muscle and Frank standing there dripping blood on the tile.

She took the shirt from his hands and put it in the shower, too. Setting the compact first aid kit that looked military issue on the toilet tank, she looked over at him and said somewhat stupidly, "You're injured."

When he raised an eyebrow at her, pained smirk on his face, and agreed with a flat 'yes, ma'am' she rolled her eyes and added while gesturing to the toilet, "You should sit then."

Eyebrow still raised, he looked dubiously from her to it. "How well do you do with blood? I need stitching…a lot of stitching."

For the first time, her eyes were drawn to the vicious, ragged cut that ran from his side to his back, leaking copious amounts of blood into the band of his pants. Something that tasted like coffee and the Indian take-out she'd had for dinner rose up in her throat.

Swallowing it down, she nodded, "Good point."

She tried to squeeze past him, inadvertently getting blood swiped all along the right side of the t-shirt she slept in. With all she had, she tried not to think about it or how vibrantly the red stuck out against the pale blue of the shirt.

Glancing at the assault rifle sitting silently, unassumingly in her kitchen, she grabbed the stool right beside it. For a moment she contemplated also grabbing the whiskey on the top of her fridge but decided against it. If he wanted it, he'd ask for it. Her hands were shaking badly enough without any extra help.

Frank was her friend and he needed help. She could fucking do this. She wasn't timid Karen who covered her mouth and averted her eyes. She might throw up a couple of times, quite possibly break down into tears at some point, but that didn't matter. She had a job to do.

Setting the stool down just outside the bathroom door, she slid back inside. Frank's large frame made it impossible not to brush against him again. But honestly, what was a little more blood?

Pulling her hair back, she grabbed the first aid kit as he pulled the stool in and hauled himself atop it with a groan. Unzipping the kit, she held it open to him, "Pick your poison?"

He smirked at her again before pointing a bloody finger to a curved needle and a length of thick, black thread beside it. "There should be gloves buried in there, too."

Scrubbing what blood was already on her hands, under her fingernails, off in the sink, she pulled the too-big black gloves on and pulled out the needle, threading it and knotting it at his instruction. Letting out a deep breath, she asked with a weak smile that was mostly for her own benefit, "Do I need to hold it over a match or soak it in whisky or something?"

"No, I keep them sterilized." He brought his right arm away from his chest for the first time aside from undressing and held it up to her. Partway between his elbow and wrist, a large gouge was dribbling blood down over his wrist bone and dripping off his fingers. As he moved the limb, she could see muscles and tendons moving inside.

She blinked at it once and then twice. For a short second she thought she'd breathed through it. In a sudden rush, she knew she was wrong.

"Nope."

Holding her breath as her stomach mutinied, she put down the needle and tore the gloves off just before throwing up that coffee and Indian taste into her toilet. Bracing herself with both hands on the seat, she couldn't stop until her stomach was empty. Halfway through, she felt a warm, sticky, comforting hand on her back.

When she was finally through and she had spit the last of her vomit into the water and wiped off her mouth with toilet paper, she let out a deep breath. Flushing, she turned back to him and washed before putting the gloves back on. "Sorry. Okay, where was I?"

"It's okay." The stare he fixed her with stayed in his eyes even when he proffered his arm again and said gently, "Use one of the antiseptic wipes to get the extra blood out of the way."

She did and then took the needle back up. Glancing uncertainly from his wound to his eyes, she asked, "Do I just…stick it through?"

"Yeah, poke it through one side and use the curve to poke it through the other then pull." He added after he probably saw some of the sick hesitation in her eyes, "It's not gonna hurt me any more than the cut already did."

Nodding, she almost reached up to push her hair out of her face. She paused halfway there because her gloved hand was bloody and her hair was already back. The smirk he sent at her brought one out on her face before she leaned toward his arm. "Okay… Okay."

The first few stitches were the worst as she tried to keep whatever little bit was left still in her stomach where it was. His skin stretched more than she thought and, even though he never made more noise than a slightly sharper inhale, she was acutely aware of the fact she was sticking him with something sharp and then pulling it through his skin.

Usually she enjoyed the silence with him, but this time it was just buzzing in her ears alongside the metallic tang of blood in her nose. "So, um, you seem to know what you're doing. Do the Marines teach everybody how to do this?"

"Yes, ma'am." As strange as it was and as much as she wished he'd just call her by her name most of the time, wondered what he had against it, the well-known phrase helped quiet her stomach. If Frank was calling her ma'am then things really were okay. "Though I've had quite a bit of practice. Never have learned to stay out of trouble."

Glancing up at him, she quirked a smile, "The understatement of the century goes to Frank Castle, ladies and gentlemen."

His laugh stayed in his throat so it wouldn't move his arm, but she could hear it for what it was. A few minutes later, he rumbled in his low voice, "How about you? Were you the type to get broken arms and shit when you were a kid?"

"Not quite," she replied with another smile, welcoming the distraction for the part of her brain not intensely focused in on sewing his skin back together, wiping the leaking blood away as needed. "I fell off my bike a lot. After the training wheels came off, my knees were in a constant state of scraped. I always went too fast down the hills and was too late with the brakes. I had this scar that was black from the asphalt for years."

Without looking up, she could hear the grin in his voice. "Frank Jr. was like that. He almost gave himself a concussion crashing into a car parked on the street when he was six."

She laughed, "I thought you said Lisa was the one who got your crazy. Crashing into cars sounds like your sort of crazy."

"Oh, she did. They both got it, he was just quieter about it, snuck it in when nobody was expecting it." He proceeded to tell her the story of the boy's fourth birthday when, after he blew out his candles, he took two big handfuls of his cake and started throwing like they were chocolate and frosting grenades.

Laughing so hard she was almost crying, she wiped her nose on the back of her wrist. "Okay, how do I tie it off?"

"Just loop it under and pull it tight." She did so and pulled her hands back slightly to show him her work. With a grunt, he nodded, "Good enough."

She snipped off the thread with the pair of scissors in the kit and immediately fell in to threading the needle again. After telling him to turn on the stool so his side and back were in the light more, she started the routine once more. Antiseptic wipe, soak up some of the overflowing blood with her closest hand towel, knot off the needle, and poke it through.

As she started the second stitch, she missed the conversation that kept her distracted. Not even entirely sure she wanted to know, she asked the first question that came to mind, "Were you just unlucky tonight or was…work worse than usual?"

Frank didn't answer right away and she knew he was pondering how much to tell her precisely. She knew he wouldn't lie to her, but at the same time the less she knew about specifics the better. She wasn't supposed to be spending at least one night a week cooking the Punisher dinner, let alone patching him up at three in the morning and knowing who did it to him. He was trying to keep her safe and it was with such a subtle touch that she didn't mind, actually appreciated it.

"I'll probably hear the specifics in the morning. The criminal element of Hell's Kitchen is as much a part of my job as yours."

That seemed to satisfy him when she met his gaze in the mirror. "No, there were just more of them. Came at me from a couple of sides instead of just lining up to get killed."

"People do that?" she asked with a frown.

He grunted a laugh, "You'd be surprised. I think it saves Red's life quite a bit. They see this guy who's famous for not killing and they try to take him on one at a time, prove they're badass."

"They must be slow on the uptake with you, then."

She still wasn't always one hundred percent sure what she felt about what he did, usually was lost somewhere in the grey of it, whether he should actually be in jail or if he was doing what the law couldn't manage, but he never lied to her about it, tried to hide it. Just like Matt, anything she said trying to convince him to stop wouldn't do any good, but, unlike Matt, Frank wasn't trying to bring her to his side. He was what he was, believed what he believed, and he afforded her the same right. She saw no reason to shy away from the very apparent, bloody truth in that moment just because she hadn't found a solid bit of moral ground to stand on.

He quirked a grin in response to hers and nodded, "Yes, ma'am."

Karen had one hand braced against his bruised back, pulling another stitch through, when she felt his voice rumble through his ribs and into her fingers. When she glanced up, he was staring at her in the mirror again. "You had to point that .380 at anyone lately?"

"Almost but no. Maybe in the next couple of days, though." She'd tried to keep her voice light, just like her thoughts whenever she considered it, but didn't quite manage. Nor did she manage to figure out why she was telling him in the first place. Answering his raised eyebrow, she added, "I'm working on an article about this group of Wall Street assholes. They come down here in their nice cars and beat the shit out of the nearest black prostitute they can get to go with them. The only thing I can figure is that they think they're in Grand Theft Auto or something. I've got all their names, where they work, how they all met at Yale. The police can't tie them to the crimes with enough physical proof to charge them, but I can print all that I know, warn people."

"Be careful."

She forced a smile, "Always am. That's why I got a new lock. Besides, I don't think they actually have the balls to do more than threaten me. I'm not exactly their type."

He didn't smile back and even as she directed her gaze back to the wound before her, she felt his gaze on her like a physical weight. She was readying herself for warnings, entreaties to take a less dangerous job, keep quiet and keep safe. They didn't come and she immediately realized that she shouldn't have expected them.

"You have enough bullets in there for all of them?"

No, not if she followed her previous method of emptying the whole damn clip into each chest, pausing after the first shot to make the instinctive, deep in her stomach decision to make damn fucking sure, to remove the threat, make sure she saw the life drain out of its eyes.

She'd stopped mid-stitch and she caught her chest constricting. Taking her free hand, she wiped at her forehead with the back and focused again.

"Yeah. There's only four of them. I'll be fine."

Silence descended and she knew what he was asking with his gaze. Tonight better? That was what he asked every time. But no, not yet.

She hated trying to pinpoint why she was so reluctant, especially when she knew, she _knew_ , that she'd feel better afterward, that he'd understand. He'd look at her with those eyes she didn't have to explain anything to because he already got it. He'd say something that made her feel better, maybe even laugh, in that voice that made her jealous of his family. But she knew why she hadn't.

The secret, the dark and terrible secret that had blood on her soul, had been inside of her for so long, so long it was a part of her, like a tumor. But it was still a part of her. One she was ashamed of and scared of whenever she thought too long or too hard, but it was still her. It was her secret. If she let it go, let it out, gave it to Frank, would she crumble without it? Would there be this hole inside of her that couldn't be fixed? Would openly admitting that she was broken inside make it visible on the outside to the people who couldn't read her soul?

She wasn't ready to find out the answers.

"Not tonight, Frank."

"Okay."

She finished off his stitches, cutting the thread and wiping away the remaining blood. As she stood, setting the bloody needle on the corner of her sink, he nodded to the kit. "There's gauze and tape in there."

And just like that, the weight of her fear was gone. The weight of everything else was still there—blood in the air, bruises under her fingers, an assault rifle leaning against her cabinets, the probability that she'd be threatened for doing her job—but _that_ one was gone and she let out a relieved breath because of it.

Pulling her gloves off so the gauze wouldn't be too bloody, she took the roll and started wrapping it around his arm. His side was next and she managed to tape on a few bandaged-sized layers. Setting her supplies on the sink, she took the moment to take stock of the rest of him. He had a cut along one side of his nose and both eyes would be black tomorrow, the right was swelling badly. His ribs were rather mottled, but the bruises looked a few days old. There were a couple of still bleeding nicks on his forehead and one across his eyebrow that she decided to butterfly bandage. His knuckles were their usual mess. And his hair was buzzed shorter than usual. It was still slightly longer on the top, sitting lightly on his forehead, but he'd clearly taken the time to clean it up since she last saw him.

Digging through the kit for the butterflies, she asked lightly, "You ever thought of wrapping your hands? Don't they hurt?"

"I never really feel it until afterwards and I don't want it to mess with my trigger finger."

"Oh, makes sense," she noted absently as she stepped in between his legs and wiped off the cut on his forehead. He'd asked for her help and she wasn't going to half-ass it. She was bandaging everything she could get her hands on. He stiffened slightly when she got that close, but she ignored it, along with the stare he was sending at her. Sitting on the stool he was still at about eyelevel with her so that was a bit difficult.

Reaching behind her to grab them, she said as she unwrapped the bandages, trying to distract the both of them again, "You cut your hair."

"Yeah, was getting shaggy. I can't stand it when it touches my ears. Don't know how Red does it."

She laughed at that. Matt's hair wasn't even that long and she doubted Frank had actually felt his hair touch his ears in years. Pressing the butterflies to his skin, she smirked at him, "If Matt's shaggy, do I even want to know what you think about Foggy?"

"Hey, to each his own, ma'am, but I'm not saying he wouldn't benefit from a pair of clippers."

"Never mention that to him. He's very proud of his hair."

"Whatever floats his boat," he said with a shrug. "Long hair or not, he's a pretty damn good lawyer."

"Yeah. He is. I think he misses Matt, though. It was their dream since college, open up their own law firm and save the downtrodden, fight for the little guy."

Frank made a throaty noise of acknowledgement before he shrugged, "I guess Red only had time for doing that one way, huh."

"Something like that," she agreed. Throwing the wrappers in the trash, she took a step back and grabbed a new washcloth out of the cupboard. Nodding at his stitched-up arm, she asked, "You can't get those wet, right?"

"Probably shouldn't, no."

"Okay, hold still." Washcloth in hand, she ran it under the warm water and grabbed a bottle from the shelf in her shower. She raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a look immediately after, "And don't whine about my body wash."

He smirked at her. "Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am."

"Smart ass."

Without another word, she started wiping the blood off his face, going over his bruises as gently as she could, washing it out of the scruff on his cheeks and chin. She'd finished with the left side and his eyes had blinked closed when he said roughly, "I can do this myself, Karen."

"Yeah, because you won't just make it worse with those knuckles bleeding all over the place." When he peeked an eye open at her, uncertainty and something else looking back at her, she added more softly, "Just let me help you, Frank."

A long, deep breath that showed just how tired he was, how dark the bags beneath his eyes that were hidden by bruises were, how he'd probably almost died that night, escaped from his throat along with "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled faintly at it and resumed her work, absently humming some song she couldn't name as she did. After getting the worst of the blood off his face and his massacred knuckles, she rinsed the washcloth and moved to his hair. In that moment, she was glad he wasn't 'shaggy' like Matt. Though, she wasn't sure she'd like him shaggy at all. It just wouldn't fit him.

She was right above his right temple when her finger sunk slightly. With a short shriek of surprise, she jerked her hand away as his eyes snapped open. She immediately felt guilty when she realized he'd basically been asleep. Holding her hands up as his eyes darted in all directions, one of his hands already on her waist to shove her behind him, she apologized breathlessly, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I just…"

She gently placed her fingertips back on the spot, rubbing her thumb over it a few times. "…I think I just found the bullet hole in your skull."

Embarrassed, she sent him an apologetic smile, "I wasn't expecting it."

He grunted, giving as much of a yawn as she'd ever seen from him as he rubbed a hand down his face. "Yeah, I never do either. I've got it from here. Thank you."

"Okay. I'll try and find something that might fit you."

"I just needed stitching, ma'am. I'll be fine."

Sighing, she glanced at the clock on her microwave. It was going on four. She had to be at the paper in four hours unless she decided to call in, which wouldn't sound like a terrible idea if she didn't have a mandatory staff meeting. She also had an assault rifle covered in blood and brain matter in her kitchen, her shower was filled with blood-soaked clothes and body armor, and she had a wounded Punisher sitting in her bathroom.

Whether or not she'd get any more sleep was already iffy at best, but if he left, she'd just spend the rest of the night worrying. That was a certainty.

"You've got a hole in your arm and across your back and I'm not sure you're going to be able to see out of your right eye in the morning. Frank, just…stay. Please."

He stared at her with that look she didn't understand and she kept eye contact, but she knew that if he stayed quiet for too long she'd break down and say that she'd worry about him, that she cared, that she'd stood on a dock next to a burning ship once and thought he was dead. She hadn't liked the feeling and she wanted to avoid it tonight, just flesh wounds or not.

"Alright."

She probably should've said thank you, but she just gave a grateful nod and handed him the washcloth. Squeezing past him got more blood onto her pajamas that wouldn't come out, but she was far beyond caring. Closing the door behind her, she peeled her shirt, pajama pants, and underwear all off and shoved them into her trash can. She'd take it out on her way to work. Pulling out something new, she slipped into the clothes before starting to rummage in the farthest reaches of her drawers for something, _anything_ , that might fit him.

Karen had a penchant for sleeping in oversized t-shirts, so she easily found an XL that would hopefully stretch across his chest. Forgotten and probably just thrown in a bag during her hasty move, she almost squealed in happiness when she found the pair of men's sweatpants in the very back. She honestly couldn't remember where she'd gotten them, whose they'd been—one night stands weren't exactly a habit of hers, but she'd had a couple, especially when she first came to the city and was lonely—but they would work. They might be a tad bit short, but he'd survive.

Balling the clothes up, she cracked the bathroom door and held them out. Their weight left her hand and she closed the door once more. She fought a yawn for a moment before padding over to the kitchen. Frank's rifle was still sitting there, quiet and unassuming and so damned terrifying at the same time. A small bloody pool had formed at its base.

Glancing back at the bathroom door, she heard the sink running. She'd gotten most of the blood from his shoulders up taken care of, but there was plenty more. It would probably take him a while. She might as well do something useful.

She poured herself a cup of her coffee from the previous morning and grabbed the roll of paper towels. Sinking to the floor, she took a long swig of the cold, bitter liquid before tearing off a couple of sheets and pulling the rifle into her lap, careful to keep the blood as far away from her as she could and making special note of the safety being on.

Some part of her knew that she should be angry, annoyed, outraged that Frank had brought this to her doorstep. But she wasn't.

She could fight herself on the morality of what he did every single day for the rest of her life and she knew that wouldn't keep her from wanting to be his friend, wanting to be in his life and have him in hers. She'd never set out to stand beside him and pull triggers of her own, but she'd always want to help. She wanted him to be safe. She wanted him to think about his family with that grin on his face instead of the tears. She wanted him to remain more Frank Castle than the Punisher. And somewhat more selfishly, she wanted to keep him around to stare into her soul and understand her even when she just kept saying 'not tonight.'

If all of that meant she sat on her kitchen floor in the wee hours of the morning and cleaned blood off of the butt of his rifle because it was getting on her floor, then it was something she could do. He'd never ask it of her. She knew that, _knew_ it, and somehow that made it that much easier to do.

The worst of the blood was gone and she'd started on the floor when the bathroom door quietly clicked open. She rose and looked at him standing awkwardly in the doorway. He looked at her with that look of confused annoyance, "I don't wear sweatpants."

Without warning, laughter bubbled up from her stomach and escaped before she could stop it. Raising an eyebrow when she finally got her breath back, she simply said, "Well, you'll have to rough it for tonight, Marine."

She could see the urge in his eyes to reply with his usual snarky 'yes, ma'am,' but she beat him to it. Nodding at it, she offered, "You can have the bed. I have to be up in a few hours anyway."

"It's your bed."

"You're injured and have fresh stitches."

"I'll get blood on it."

"That's why you washed."

They stared at one another for a few more breaths before she knew she wasn't going to win going her current road. Pushing her fingers through her hair, she yawned as she looked to the microwave clock once more. Though there was nothing wrong with her couch, her bed sounded a hundred times better. It wasn't like either of them was going to 'try something' anyway.

Fixing him with a flat look, she offered bluntly, "It's a queen bed. I hadn't slept in two days before tonight, you were literally torn open earlier, and it'll fit both of us and we can sleep." When he hesitated, she added, "I'll just be up cleaning the bathroom if either of us is on the couch."

Though he looked distinctly displeased, he shuffled across the space with a slight limp she hadn't noticed earlier. For the life of her, she did her best not to show that she was feeling awkward as all hell when she brought her pistol, laid it on her nightstand, and crawled beneath her covers.

She made sure to stay very rigidly to her side as Frank basically collapsed beside her, letting out a low, pained groan as he finally lay down. When she went to fleetingly glance over at him, he was already looking at her. Much like in the bathroom, just how very tired he felt was painfully clear.

"It's a nice bed," he noted.

Laughing lightly, she smiled, "Good night, Frank."

"Good night, ma'am."

When Karen woke up in the morning, Frank was still dead to the world and she made sure not to wake him. With a small sigh, she decided to deal with the shower and rest of the bloody mess in her bathroom when she came home from work. Moving as quietly as she could, she got ready and made herself her usual breakfast of yogurt and coffee so black it warmed her blood.

She made sure the pot was still on the warmer and a clean mug was next to it when she locked her two deadbolts and made for her office.

When she came home, her bed was made, her shower spotless, and all her trash taken out. She was still smiling widely, just happy down to her soul, when she picked up the call from Foggy and agreed to go out for dinner and drinks later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	4. April

It was finally consistently warm outside and Karen was reveling in it. As much as she liked her trench coats and warm scarves and the like, she was a sundress kind of girl. There was something so refreshing about the chill of winter being fully gone, sandals and skirts making it to the forefront of her closet—when she wasn't wearing the work clothes she wore every day of the year at least.

What she wasn't so crazy about were her allergies.

Sneezing for the umpteenth time, having forgotten her medicine in her apartment that morning, she almost made herself dizzy as she approached her door. In the last weeks Frank hadn't mentioned anyone following her and she wasn't working on anything particularly dangerous, which was probably for the best. She could hardly see straight let alone get her pistol out if she managed to notice danger. Ellison had been laughing at her nasally voice and inability to say n or m correctly for the entirety of the day. He was just lucky he hadn't mentioned her red nose or she'd have slugged him.

Blinking against her watering eyes, she swore, "Son of a bitch…"

"Bad day, ma'am?"

Unable to see him in the shadows by near the door to her building, she shrieked in surprise until she recognized the voice. Hand to her chest, she let out a shaky breath that turned into a sneeze. Wiping her nose, she greeted, "Hi Frank."

"Ma'am."

Before she could say another word or take more than a step closer to him, something at his feet began quite forcefully barking. Again clutching her chest, she recoiled even as he harshly shushed the creature at his feet. "Hey, cut it out. Sit down."

The dog she finally took full note of whined but did as asked.

"Yeah, that's right. Be adorable. You need to get in her good graces."

Eyebrow raised, she looked from one to the other. "You have a dog? Since when do you have a dog?"

"The Irish are bad owners. We lost each other for a bit."

That answered neither of her questions but she let it slide. She'd let anything short of killing the pope slide if it meant she could get upstairs and rid herself of mandatory mouth breathing. "You can both come up if you want. I need my medicine." The m sound didn't quite come out right and she caught the grin he shot at her. Opening the door as she glared, she threw back, "Shut up!"

The dog whined again, its tail stilling instantly as it backed up to hide behind Frank's legs. They both looked at it in surprise and after a moment, she knelt down slightly so she was closer to its eyelevel. Dogs weren't a forte of hers, but she thought this one was a pit bull. Given she put up with its owner, she figured she could handle it. Smiling, she cheered up her voice as much as her nose would allow, "Come on. I think I might have some peanut butter for you if you're good."

Its tongue came out immediately and was drooling on her hand when she reached out to pet it.

As always, Frank was gazing at her with the look she couldn't place and had just gotten used to. Sneezing again after rising, she almost blindly felt her way to the door. "Fuck this shit."

Yanking on the still rather broken door, she held it open for the two of them. Technically, animals weren't allowed in the building, but then again neither was the marijuana her neighbors three doors down partook in nightly without incident. The two people they passed on the stairs just looked at her with glazed, uninterested eyes and ignored the pit bull and bruised man with cap pulled low without a word.

She almost threw herself recklessly into her apartment in an effort to find her medicine faster, but reigned herself in and carefully cleared the two rooms with her hand on her pistol. She left Frank and his dog in the doorway as she sprinted to the bathroom and threw open her medicine cabinet. Allergy spray was up her nostrils within seconds and by the time she scrunched and blinked the strange feeling away, she was already feeling less congested.

"Oh holy shit, I'm breathing!"

She heard Frank laughing from the kitchen, kneeling down beside his dog and smirking up at her. She got the feeling he found her swearing terribly funny for some reason.

Finally putting down her bag and slipping out of her shoes, she knelt down beside him and took the dog's face in her hands. Smiling widely, her voice went up the octave or two higher it always did when she talked to animals for the first time, "Well, when you're not barking at me, you're kind of adorable aren't you. Where has Frank been hiding you?"

Panting happily, the grey canine stepped forward and started licking her face. "Yeah, you're not so bad are you? I'm not sure foundation tastes very good, but I won't judge you."

Switching her gaze to Frank, she asked, "What's its name?"

"His name is Bully."

"Bully?" She asked with a frown before smiling, "Are you trying to enforce the big, scary pit bull stereotype here? Is he going to be your sidekick or something? Scary dog for a scary man."

He fixed her with the annoyed eyebrow raise before shrugging, "He's a pit bull, ain't he? Bull, Bully. Wasn't a big leap."

She rolled her eyes, "You're such a man, Frank."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate you noticing."

Laughing at his flat tone, she reached out and gently smacked his arm, "Shut…" She looked at the dog and changed her mind, "You hush. Who wants peanut butter?"

Though Bully likely had no idea what it was, he yipped happily at the excitement in her voice. Grabbing the jar off the counter and a spoon from the drawer, she soon had the dog inhaling an enormous glob, getting it stuck to the roof of his mouth. She rubbed him behind the ears for a bit longer before looking to the clock on her microwave. It was nearly ten and as usual she hadn't eaten yet.

Looking to the man beside her, she asked, "You want dinner?"

"Can't," he replied, close enough to her that she felt the rumble of his voice. As he pushed himself back to his feet, she caught sight of the shotgun hanging inside his coat. "We had to…change apartments quickly. I don't have anywhere to keep him until I get back from…work."

Even if the somewhat weak code they'd devised wasn't lying since they both understood, he was always still hesitant about not just saying what he actually meant. His reluctance to even lie in such a harmless, not really lying way made it that much easier to trust him. He'd never lied to her. Even if she didn't have a way to prove that fact to one hundred percent, she didn't need to. She knew that he never had.

"I'll watch him," she offered without waiting for him to actually ask, holding her hand out for the leash. It was more just a length of what looked like some sort of military tactical rope, but she supposed it worked.

"Thanks."

Rubbing the dog one more time, she stood also, realizing as soon as she did that she was standing in a small pool of drool but not really caring. "When do you think you'll be done?"

He shrugged. "Couple of hours, maybe closer to tomorrow morning. It's hard to say."

"Okay, here." She handed the leash back to him before walking to the lamp she kept her spare key hidden under. Bully trotted after her, huffing in annoyance when he reached the end of the line before going back to his peanut butter. Pulling the key out, she held it out to Frank. At his confused gaze, she explained, "I'd rather you not have to break into my apartment to get him if I'm passed out. Him not barking my entire floor out of bed would also be good. Just wake me up before you leave. Say goodbye."

As he paused before answering, staring at her like always, she took the moment to study his bruises. His right cheekbone was slightly swollen, a small cut on it like a lefty had snuck in a hit he wasn't expecting. Other than a cut on the bridge of his nose and the yellow remnants of a shiner on his left eye she'd seen in its purple stage the week before, he was unharmed. For Frank, the current state of his face was actually pretty good.

When he still didn't say anything and didn't move to take her key, she shifted her gaze to his hands. His knuckles were bruised and cut up but not yet bloody. His trigger finger was twitching slightly.

Only Bully plopping himself down on top of the man's right boot made him actually move. Looking down at the panting canine, he smiled and rubbed his grey head. "Be good for Karen, alright, bud?"

A lick to the hand was his answer and he finally took the key from Karen's outstretched hand. With a nod and a short, almost awkward wave, he slipped the key into a pocket and stepped toward the door. Before he touched the doorknob, he pulled something else from the inside of his coat. She watched in silence as he placed a small child's book with a cardboard cover and gold binding onto her kitchen counter. A single glance told her its title was "One Batch, Two Batch."

"If you could watch this, too…" He didn't quite look at her, just sort of put her in his peripheral as he stared at the floor at her feet over his shoulder. As soon as she nodded, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

"Stay safe, Frank."

"Yes, ma'am."

She bolted the door after him, realizing after a short moment that she was alone in her apartment with a pit bull of all things. Looking down at the dog who was whining slightly, scratching at the door because Frank had gone through it and not taken him with him, she ushered him further into the room. "He'd better have fed you, honey."

Just to be sure, she grabbed him another glob of peanut butter to occupy himself with as she changed out of her work clothes and slipped into pajamas.

On her way to the kitchen to feed herself, she paused beside the book. Running her thumb along the spine, she gazed at the two bears and their cookies on the cover, pondering the urge to read it. With a sharp inhale that almost succeeded in banishing the tears that had gathered in her eyes, she pulled her hand away. It felt too personal, too private even if she could just go to the nearest bookstore and pick one up for herself. It wasn't a line she was willing to cross without his consent.

A quick dinner of noodles and carrots she shared with Bully followed and she realized with some surprise that she ate better when Frank was there—in some fashion, either in person or dog spirit. Maybe it was because there was no one to look at her with a raised eyebrow when she threw a frozen meal into the microwave or just ate four-day-old takeout when she was alone.

Foregoing the nightly news, she spread her notes from work concerning the string of free, low-income clinics being shoved out of business out across her coffee table. She started on the couch but quickly wound up on the floor, chewing on the end of her pen and rubbing Bully's ears where his head was resting in her lap, drooling onto her pant leg.

She sighed, looking away from the facts that hadn't revealed anything she didn't already know, and glanced down at the dog in her lap. His front right leg was stretched out and she could see the scar carved into his skin above his paw. Once she actually looked for them, she could see plenty of other marks hidden amongst his fur.

Pushing her hair out of her face, ignoring the tears welling in her eyes, she rubbed his belly. "You had a bit of a rough run of it, didn't you, Bully."

Snorting awake, he just grunted happily up at her voice. After a few more minutes of belly rubs, he started snoring again. His ears didn't perk forward when she continued in a whisper, "They say it gets better, you know. But I'm not sure they're right. I think it might just be if something bad happens to you, not if you're the one who did the bad. Mine's not getting better, but I guess you don't understand that. You like me well enough, maybe that means something…"

Leaning down, she pressed an impulsive kiss to the top of his head, waking him. He panted happily up at her from his upside down position, eyes strangely like Frank's in that he'd take in whatever she said and know just to handle it. It was said that people resembled their pets. Big and scary on the outside but a strange, tender, soft sort of mush on certain parts of the inside fit Frank pretty well.

"He's going to ask me tonight, you know. He does every time, asks if tonight's better…" Bully started licking at the hand not rubbing his belly.

Biting her lip, she whispered aloud for the first time, "I killed a man, Bully. He threatened everyone I loved so I shot him seven times. One to the shoulder and six slugs straight to the chest. I was so scared. So scared and angry and I knew exactly what I was doing. I-I killed him. I watched him die. I saw it in his eyes. He's dead. Well, maybe not as dead as he could be. He won't leave me alone."

She let out a deep breath that was right on the cusp of being a sob, "I wasn't wrong. He was going to hurt everyone I cared about, bleed me dry just because he could. He…He smiled at me when I pulled the gun on him. He fucking smiled. He didn't think I could do it. He thought he was invincible, but he wasn't. He wasn't. He was going to kill me one way or another and I stopped him. I stopped him, so why can't I let it go? I'm so tired of carrying it, Bully. I'm so tired. How does he do it? How does Frank not drown in it?"

The sob she'd known was coming broke out of her and when she went to push her hair back, she got dog slobber all through it. Laughing lightly through the tears, she smiled down at the dog who'd rolled awkwardly to his feet and started licking her face. That probably wouldn't be Frank's approach, but it was effective enough.

"He's going to ask, but not tonight, Bully. Once is enough for one night."

When both her deadbolts and the lock in the doorknob slid open, Karen was passed out leaning over the coffee table. Somehow comfortable, Bully was still in her lap, at least until he recognized the figure in the door. She jerked awake as he leapt to his feet and trotted to the door, happily whining.

She groaned at the crick in her neck before pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. Again before saying anything, she took a quick assessment of the blood on Frank's features. He was going to have a second black eye, but that seemed to be all. He'd already wiped off the worst of the sticky, red substance.

Most of it must have been off of his hands, because he took the book from where he'd set it on her counter and put it back into his coat. Finally looking at her, he asked, "He good?"

"Oh, he was perfect. He'll probably have to go out on your way home, though." Arms crossed over her chest, she approached and leaned against the counter, wincing at her neck again. "How about you? Are you good?"

"Yeah. No worries." After tying Bully's leash to his collar again, he fixed her with the gaze she actually did recognize. It was the one that suspected, that basically knew everything but the specifics, and gently told her she could say something. Voice low, he asked, "Tonight better, Karen?"

Gently smiling for the first time when answering that question, she shook her head, "Not tonight. Once is enough."

Folding herself down to her knees in front of the dog, she rubbed his neck until he was licking her face. Pressing another kiss to the top of his head, she said goodbye, "I'll see you later, Bully. You're welcome to eat my peanut butter anytime. Yeah, maybe I'll grab some bacon for you next time."

Wiping her slobbery hands off on her pants, she stood once more and noticed the almost imperceptible smile Frank was sending at her. She returned it. "Good night, Frank."

"Good night, Karen."

She only realized after they'd left and she'd locked her door that she'd forgotten to take her key back. No one else had even been to her home, to the two rooms she called her own and were what she was supposed to consider safe, and she hadn't even remembered to reclaim the only other key to it. Her trust hadn't been misplaced so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	5. May

Karen knew Frank was going to show up from the moment she woke up that morning.

There was never a specific pattern to when he dropped by. He seemed to know her schedule well enough that he wasn't standing outside her door waiting for long and he'd just gotten himself into the building on multiple occasions without her help, appearing on the other side of her peephole, voice rumbling through the door. She didn't mind the unpredictability. It was a bit of a routine in and of itself. At least once a week, often twice, on a day she wasn't sure of, Frank showed up at her door and she cooked him dinner and sat with him until she went to bed, sometimes with Bully, sometimes without. And she always felt better afterward, missed him when he wasn't there.

But that night she knew he'd be there. She left work early to be one hundred percent sure she didn't miss him because of how sure she was.

There was only one day over the course of the year that his family had been murdered before his very eyes.

Having brewed a fresh pot of coffee, she perched herself on the kitchen stool and worked on the article she would've been tinkering on had she stayed at the office. She was willing to wait.

For the first time that she could remember—probably since she worked as a secretary at Union Allied—she was actually at her apartment at a decent hour for dinner. The microwave clock showed first seven then eight but she didn't move to fix herself supper. It just felt wrong. She knew Frank was coming. She wasn't going to eat first…

She wasn't even sure he'd feel like eating. A few weeks before it had been his son's birthday. Frank Jr. would've been nine. Aside from black coffee and a yogurt on her part, neither of them had eaten as they sat on her couch, laptop before them, and watched the four hours' worth of soccer games she'd found that a parent on his son's team had put on YouTube.

Sports in general had never really been her thing, including ones involving kids seven to nine years old, and she'd accidentally fallen asleep on his shoulder about two hours in. When she'd jerked awake at an upset parent shouting right next to the cameraperson, she'd looked up at him with pink tinging her ears and a slightly sore neck.

"Sorry," was all she'd managed to get out before sitting up straight, blinking owlishly. Frank had been staring at her, the look she still couldn't place or put a name to in his eyes. Even though she'd meant to after noticing the look, she didn't move back to her end of the couch. Legs crossed before her on the cushion, her knee pressed up against his thigh, and her arm flush against his side, she hadn't moved. He was one of those people who took up half the couch when he sat, arms along the back, legs pressing against the coffee table because they were too long to fit into the space comfortably but he wouldn't move it. His arm had been behind her head as she slept and he hadn't moved it when she woke, just warm and solid and there the whole time.

At some point she must've fallen back to sleep on him because she woke up the next morning still on the couch, covered with a blanket from her bed. She had the vague recollection of feeling the familiar question rumble beneath her ear. She'd murmured in response, "Not tonight."

Neither of them had mentioned the evening of Frank Jr's birthday again, but she'd taken something from it. Frank preferred remembering to avoiding pain. His family, even dead, were still the people in his life who could bring the most pain. Karen wasn't sure that would ever not be true. Rather than save himself the hurt, he'd take every single tiny bit of it he could get if it meant remembering, keeping them alive in the one way he had. She doubted tonight would be any different.

Her coffee was basically gone and the microwave declared it was almost ten when her phone rang. The screen lit up with Foggy's name. Smiling, she answered and immediately heard the sounds of a bar in the background, "Hi Foggy."

_"Karen! Karen, Karen, Karen, beautiful Karen."_

Somebody was already a little drunk…although she supposed it was Thirsty Thursday.

Mimicking his amusingly formal tone, she answered, "Yes, that is indeed I, Foggy. What's up?"

_"What's up? What's up! What is up is that it's Thursday, beautiful Karen. What are you doing right now? Whatever it is, it isn't more important than getting to Josie's where we are and drinking enough alcohol to kill the bacteria in the water with us. It's for the sake of public safety. The olives are white again. Do you know what that's about?"_

"I'm sorry, I don't. But I wouldn't eat them. Foggy, _don't_ eat the olives." A small piece of her was sad that she was missing drunken Foggy. He was the most entertaining drunk she'd ever met and she didn't see him as much as she would've liked anymore. But at the same time, her choice had been made before she was even presented with it.

She wasn't going to meet Foggy at the bar. Even if Matt was there with him and it would be just like old times and she'd wake up in the morning hungover but happy, she wasn't going to go. Not tonight.

It was hardly even a choice. She loved those times at the bar and she was sad she was going to miss it, but there was no temptation, no internal struggle. She was already where she needed to be.

_"Hey! Hey, Matt, did you hear that? We're_ not _supposed to eat the olives!"_

She had no doubt that he had heard. He'd explained some more of how a blind man was a baton-wielding, martial artist vigilante. Hell, he could probably hear through the phone the heavy footsteps she noticed coming toward her door.

_"I know that, Foggy. You're the only one eating them. You've been spending too much time with Marci and her martinis."_

Karen laughed lightly at Matt's comment, clearly made from the barstool next to Foggy's. She was at the door, looking through the peephole to see the large black shadow in the hall before he knocked. As soon as he did, she undid the locks and opened the door, smiling quickly at him and holding up a finger to hold on a second. He locked the door for her as she focused back in on the argument Matt and Foggy were having about olives and avocados.

"Foggy. Foggy… Foggy!"

_"Beautiful Karen! When are you getting here? Beautiful, beautiful Karen…"_

She couldn't help but laugh. He did that when he drank. He got attached to certain words and he just used the hell out of them for the rest of the night. Where he was hovering near the door, she even caught a smile on Frank's face at the man's antics. She immediately gained a fear of him latching onto 'beautiful Karen' and using it to drive her crazy.

"I'm not coming, Foggy. I'm sorry, but I've got somewhere else I need to be."

_"But beautiful Karen…"_ he whined.

"No, don't 'beautiful Karen' me, Foggy Nelson. You'll survive like a big boy. Next time." He started muttering somewhat incoherently and she added, "Matt, start getting water into him. For Christ's sake, it's only ten."

_"Is there water in whiskey?!"_ Foggy shouted hopefully.

Both she and Matt replied with the same firm, "No!"

She heard what she took to be some sort of struggle for the phone and then Matt's voice appeared, _"Have a nice night, Karen."_

"You, too, Matt. Keep him out of trouble."

_"I will."_

Ending the call and placing the phone down, she sent Frank a wry smile, "Matt inherited the Irish liver. Foggy, not so much."

He returned it for a short moment before putting his hands into the pockets of his short, not-the-Punisher jacket and looking down at her feet. She let him stay in his silence, still a little unsure how to be around him when on the brink of discussing his family. She never had any trouble when she was there on the spot, confronted with his pain and the inescapable need to, if not lessen it, then share in it. She just managed to overthink herself when leading up to it.

Waiting for him to speak, she started clearing away her notes, closing her laptop and plugging it in across the room.

"I can go."

She frowned at him over her shoulder before straightening and coming closer, wondering why he was still standing in the corner, like he was waiting for a chance to leave. "Why?"

"You said you have somewhere you need to be."

Finally understanding, she approached him until he finally looked up at her. Though happy wasn't exactly what she felt, her mouth pulled itself into a quiet smile as she nodded, "Yeah, here."

Her mouth added three more words her brain hadn't approved a second later, "With you, Frank."

The look that bored into her as soon as they were out was the one she never understood. She'd come to like it though. Of all things, it made her toes tingly.

It took him a few good, long minutes to find whatever answers he was looking for with the stare. A short, somewhat pained bark of laughter came out of his throat as he ran a hand down his face. "I wasn't sure you'd know what today was, make the connection."

"Reporter," she gave as explanation with a shrug. "Dates are kind of our thing."

"This mean you know my birthday, too?"

"Shit, I do. I do," she muttered as she tried to think back, running a hand through her hair. "It was in your medical files I somewhat dubiously obtained. February. It's in February. The…sixteenth?"

His smile was once again short-lived, somehow made all the sadder by the bruises on his face. She stood silently as he leaned against the wall and bent at the waist, taking his hat into his hands and staring down at the space between his boots, rubbing his face on occasion. Then he bent his knees and slowly slid down to the floor, elbows propped on his knees.

The overthinking stopped in that precise moment and once again she was just consumed by the picture of the man before her. She didn't know if it was just with her or if he'd always been so genuine, but it called to something in her, irrevocably making her heart reach out and grab onto the connection with both hands. Unsure how, she knew that she was powerless to let go.

In the small bit of space between him and her shoe mat, she slid down beside him. Though she'd never done it before, her arms didn't hesitate before reaching around his shoulders. Resting her chin on the one right next to her, she whispered a single time, "I'm sorry, Frank. I'm so sorry."

A long, wavering exhale came out of his nose and a second later he tilted his head just enough to lean against hers. And just like that, she was hugging Frank Castle for the first time.

They sat there like that for what must've been close to an hour, just breathing around one another, not saying anything, not really even looking at each other. It was intimate in a way she couldn't describe, the knowledge more of a nebulous feeling in her chest that shifted whenever she tried to put words on it. All she could figure was that it wasn't scary. It was the exact opposite of scary. It was like…home. Even though the cynic in her cackled at that like it was the best, most pathetic shit since sliced bread, the feeling stuck.

At some point, she'd started crying but Karen didn't realize it until she blinked when she felt his voice rumble through his chest. "Will you come somewhere with me?"

"Y-Yeah." Clearing her throat against the lump in it, she tried again, "Yeah, of course. Let me get shoes."

Pushing herself up with the wall and his knee, she got upright and slipped on a pair of flats. Not quite willing to ask where they were going or how long it would take to get there, she wordlessly grabbed a cardigan and pulled it on. When she turned to face him again, Frank was on his feet, looking at hers with a raised eyebrow.

"What?"

He nodded at her feet. "I'll never understand women's shoes."

"What? These are comfortable."

"How? There's nothing to them."

At least for the moment, the cloud of grief they'd been sitting beneath together cleared. Huffing, she glared as she grabbed her keys and sent a look toward his boots, "Yeah, that's _why_ they're comfortable. Why should I cart around an extra ten pounds on my feet? That's what my purse is for."

Once they were on the street, he turned them northward. It was still warm, but he didn't stick out for still being in a coat. With his hat on his head and her by his side, he probably actually looked normal, just another guy walking down the street with his girlfriend, out on the town for the night. Karen knew that wasn't what was happening, but just how thoroughly the police had plastered his face across Hell's Kitchen those months ago when he first escaped ran through her mind. Without saying anything, she took a step closer to him and hooked her arm through his.

Instead of Frank Castle, the Punisher, and Karen Page, the investigative journalist shining light on the darkness of Hell's Kitchen, it wouldn't hurt to be just two people walking down the street.

Though he glanced at her arm for a short moment, moving his gaze up to her face immediately after, he didn't pull away from the touch. She could only imagine that he'd read her intent on her face. He read just about everything else there.

They passed four police cars out patrolling, one car accident, and an ambulance screaming down the street on their way. He wasn't the only one who sent each siren a wary look. At least Foggy's phone call indicated that Matt was probably safe for a couple more hours. Plenty of others were out for the same reason her former avocados-at-law were and she and Frank blended into the bar crowds with little problem.

It wasn't until they crossed 59th Street that the city quieted slightly around them. Central Park was always strangely quiet compared to everywhere else. Without the concrete on all sides, it was also chillier, the grass already dewy just off the sidewalk.

Smoothing her skirt with her hand before sitting, she sunk down onto the bench Frank silently led them to. Even though she'd lived in the city for over three years, Karen couldn't remember ever actually stopping and taking a moment to look at the carousel until right then.

She instinctively knew that he had, though. He stretched out on the bench like he did with her couch, legs extended in front of him, his arm behind her on the painted wood. Even if she hadn't already known what importance the place held for him, she could've figured it out simply from how he was sitting.

Those were the sorts of things she found herself just noticing about Frank Castle in the last months.

The carousel was closed and all its lights were off, but there were still a few people walking by on their ways to somewhere else. Though she looked behind them and down the main paths, she didn't notice anything out of place. "They won't be expecting you to come here today?"

They both knew she was referring to the cops and, his eyes glued forward, he shook his head with a short jerk, "They did. They've gone home already. I guess it's close enough to tomorrow, they figured I wouldn't go to the effort. I'm just crazy remember."

"You're not a monster, Frank," she said levelly, eyebrow raised and brooking no argument. He didn't look at her, but she caught the small, humoring quirk of his mouth. He could believe whatever he wanted about himself, whatever he thought he needed to. That didn't matter. She knew what she knew. She could be stubborn, too.

Crossing her legs and pulling her cardigan closed against what chill there was when sitting next to the human heater that was Frank, she asked after a moment, "Which one was her favorite? The horse from the picture?"

He nodded and made an affirmative sound deep in his throat. It took him a few breaths to say aloud, "She was a tomboy with a bunch of shit, dinosaurs and wanting to be a soldier like daddy. That particular one scared the shit out of Maria. It did me, too, but I never had the heart to tell Lisa that. She was a complete fucking girl when it came to horses, though. I mean, do they just wire that shit into your brains? I've never met a woman who hasn't wanted a horse at some point."

"Men got dogs and trucks. We needed something that combined both best friendship and transportation," she provided with a smile.

"Yeah, but did they have to make a damn tv show about it? I swear to god I woke up every Saturday morning with that stupid pony show playing from the living room. Something about Fluttershy and Rarity and Rainbow Dash and that pink monstrosity that made my ears bleed."

It took her a minute to realize what he was talking about but once she did she couldn't stop laughing. She tried to hide it behind the back of her hand but as soon as he glanced at her, rolled his eyes, and muttered "Yeah, laugh it up," she lost it. She couldn't help it, not thinking about him waking up to the "My Little Pony" theme and still knowing half the names. No matter how much he complained now, she also couldn't help but believe he'd been roped into watching quite a few episodes and probably hadn't minded spending a morning with his daughter and animated ponies in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," she finally gasped out. Hiccupping against a few lingering giggles, she cleared her throat enough to get out with a marginally straight face, "Sorry."

"No you're not."

That was true but she refused to openly admit it as they sat there and his arm inched ever so slightly closer to her shoulders. Neither of them said anything when she lightly leaned against his side.

One a.m. was starting to approach, the park emptying, when he asked quietly, "Tonight better?"

Without warning, her body folded further into his side, her head just inches from being able to tilt to the right and lean against him if it was so inclined. On some level she knew she should move back to her spot, sit up on her own, stop leaning her weight into him. Once it was there, though, she didn't feel like moving it. Aside from an initial moment of tension, his muscles beneath her relaxed back to normal. The arm behind her got a little heavier against her shoulders.

Unexpectedly content, she couldn't ruin it with her dark and terrible.

"Not tonight, Frank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	6. June

Her extra bag thumped rhythmically against her hip as Karen approached the door to her building. She hadn't counted on it being quite so heavy, but it was worth a sore hip and the favor that a photographer at _The Bulletin_ had demanded in exchange for letting her borrow his camera with the best lens.

Aside from the righteous anger she felt about every wrong done to those in Hell's Kitchen, the deep-seated knowledge that she had to do something because people were being hurt, she rarely let her personal feelings get too embroiled in her work. It was too stressful, too draining to focus on herself rather than the actual victims of what she wrote about. But tonight…tonight she was fucking pissed and heaven have mercy on the asshole who'd made her mad because she sure as hell wouldn't. Blood and rage were pumping in her ears and had been since she was accosted on the way to work that morning.

Key turned, she was violently yanking on the still broken door when she felt the large presence just behind her. Before she had the chance to still in terror, for her hand to go to her gun, a hand with bruised knuckles appeared above both of hers and added its strength to getting the door open.

"Ma'am."

Letting out a breath without turning around, she greeted, "Hi Frank."

She wasn't sure if it was something in her voice, posture, or if he just had a sixth sense about such things, but he seemed to immediately know that she wasn't in the best mood and remained silent as she led them up the stairs. As soon as she did her usual short clear of her apartment, she dropped both of her bags onto the counter a bit harder than she needed to. She probably didn't need to kick her shoes off so fiercely, either.

"Bad day?" he asked from where he remained by the door, staying safely out of the line of fire. So damn angry, she didn't quite appreciate the note of amusement in his tone, but she chose to ignore it.

"Yeah. Yeah, you could say that," she nodded, letting out a deep breath. Knowing she'd have to get it over with at some point, because he'd chosen that night of all nights to show up on her doorstep, she reached up and pushed a shaking hand through her hair. Though, if she was being honest, it wouldn't have mattered if he showed up that night or any of the ones within the next ten or so.

She hadn't had anything at work to try and cover it, but she doubted makeup would do much. The curse of being pale, she supposed.

Exhaling some of her anger, because he hadn't done anything, didn't deserve to be caught as collateral, she gave a tired smile when she turned around for the first time. "I really don't know how you handle these. Blinking makes me wince."

"Shit…"

She watched as surprise, anger, and concern all flickered through his eyes, in that order and then through one more round as he stepped forward and took her chin gently in one hand. Yeah, she wasn't crazy about her brand new black eye either.

A good bit of her rage was draining away, though, something else remaining in her chest. She was home and she wasn't alone and anymore that was a lot. She wouldn't have minded if he'd brought Bully that night, but it didn't escape Karen that the only person she ever spent time with in her apartment was Frank. Not being alone by nature meant being with him…and that was enough.

Her face still in his hand, his fingers having tilted that side of her face toward the light, he noted, "I'm not sure I like us matching."

For the first time that day since she'd walked into the office and started the painful process of seeing the questioning pity in the eyes of everyone who looked at her like she was a battered wife, a silly girl in over her head, she found herself smiling. "Neither am I. You wear them much better than I do."

His smile in return was nothing more than a fleeting quirk at the corner of his mouth, but it was there. "How do you figure?"

"When people see yours, they see a man who fights, who's strong, somebody not to fuck with." After staring over people's shoulders instead of looking them in the eyes all day, she'd given the difference a good bit of thought. She knew what they were all thinking about her, even if it was only in the first flash of pity that they managed to cover quickly up. "When they look at mine, they see a woman who's not strong enough to keep herself safe, maybe too stupid. They see someone to feel sorry for because she lost."

Frank fixed her with that stare she never understood, though she could practically see the thoughts whirling behind his impassive face. Finally, his thumb sliding down her chin in a way she suddenly found terribly distracting, he asked, "Did you?"

"I'm not the one who was left lying in an alley holding my just-kicked balls if that's what you mean."

His smirk had more life to it that time and she thought she saw a tad bit of pride in it when he retracted his hand and moved to sit on her kitchen stool. As she took off her coat and moved to her dresser to find something else to wear, he started asking the questions she'd expected.

"You know who it was?"

"Yeah. Did you hear about the string of vandalism at a bunch of bodegas in the last few weeks, beat up clerks and broken storefronts?" She glanced up to see his nod before going into the bathroom, continuing to talk through the door as she changed. "None of them actually reported it to the cops and when the cops did get there they wouldn't say much. I found out that all the people running the targeted shops are immigrants, illegal ones. They've all pointed me back to a Connor O'Brien who tried extorting them for 'protection money'. They turned down his offer."

Seeing Frank stiffen at the man's name in her mind's eye, she added for his benefit, "O'Brien is kind of an Irish mob wannabe. He didn't actually have the rep or connections to get in before the Irish…met you."

Changed, she was pushing her hair back when she stepped out of the bathroom and concluded, "It was one of his guys who punched me in the face and told me to back off this morning. What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

In the last six months, Karen liked to think she'd gotten pretty adept at reading Frank Castle's expressions. With how often he used them to basically talk, it was impossible not to…aside from the one that made her toes tingly and she still didn't understand in the slightest.

She'd never seen the one staring at her before in her life and it was easily one of the most peculiar. Ignoring his black eye and the healing yellow splotch on his forehead, he was looking at her with an eyebrow only partly raised, both eyes narrowed slightly in what she took to be confusion, and something resembling bewilderment on his lips.

"You're wearing jeans."

"…yes."

"You never wear pants you aren't going to sleep in."

For a moment, she was surprised he'd noticed. But then she supposed it made sense. She'd noticed enough about him in return. It made her smile faintly. "You've never seen me do laundry, then."

Letting out another breath, desperately trying to get all the remaining anger—or whatever the dark, coiling, poisonous feeling in her chest was—out of her system, she moved past him and started a fresh pot of coffee. She was going to need plenty of it. She knew what his answer was going to be, but she asked anyway as she opened up her freezer, "Is frozen pizza, okay?"

She had yet to come across a food that he wasn't willing to eat, especially if she'd made it, and when he jerked a short nod, she smiled without really looking at him. Preheating the oven, she put the pizza on a cookie sheet without looking at him either. It had become something of a habit throughout the day that apparently she couldn't quite break even though she was close enough to him that she was brushing his knees every time she passed.

She could feel him looking at her though. And as usual, he could probably tell exactly what was running through her head.

"Did you pull your gun?"

Despite herself, she was listening for some sort of reproach in the question but it wasn't there, just curiosity. She was immediately ashamed of herself for not giving him more credit. She really wasn't at her best when angry…and more than a little scared.

"No, he was already trying to run away when I kicked him. He wasn't going to do anything more than what he did. I…I thought it would be better if they didn't know I had a gun, you know."

He nodded, "Not a bad idea. I bet most people underestimate you even with it in your hand."

Fifty percent of the people she'd pointed it at had, had smiled mockingly, had thought she was bluffing. He was the half who hadn't, because of course he hadn't.

She flashed a short smile at him before sticking the pizza in the oven. When she tried to step by him to set the timer on the microwave, one of his hands caught her waist. They both looked at it resting there for a second, warm through her shirt, big enough to span over most of her hip. The stare she didn't understand was on his face when she glanced back up. He didn't remove his hand.

"Hey. Hey," he said in a quiet voice, waiting for her to look at him in the eyes again after hers flicked away. The gentle tone smacked her right in the chest and for the first time that day she had to start blinking away tears. Her hand was shaking as she brought it up and pushed her fingers through her hair. If she'd had absolutely any chance of keeping Frank out of her head before, she knew it was gone as soon as her hand moved.

"Hey, it's okay. You're okay." Pursing her lips to keep a sob from getting out, she met his gaze and immediately found herself caught, trapped in the honesty that had somewhere along the line tethered them to one another. He tightened his grip momentarily, a small comforting squeeze. "Karen, you're okay. Take a couple deep breaths. You're okay."

Back of her hand pressed to her mouth, she tried. They were shaky and filled with more terror than she'd let herself consciously notice in the last twelve hours, but she got them out.

"Yeah, see you're okay," he said again in his low voice. "It takes more than a black eye to knock you out of the ring."

She let out a shaky laugh at that, sending a smile his way that he returned with a quirk of his mouth. Taking in and exhaling one more lungful of oxygen, she breathed, "Shit…"

"Yeah, getting punched in alleyways is kinda shitty. I wouldn't recommend it. Black eyes are bad for the complexion."

Her smile gained a better foothold on her features and she gently shoved his shoulder, "Really? You have any other complexion advice for me, Frank Castle?"

"I'm just filled with knowledge, ma'am." His smile remained on his face for a bit until he squeezed her hip once more and asked seriously, "You good?"

The movement was no longer a lie to the both of them when she nodded and squeezed the shoulder she'd just shoved. "Yeah. Thank you."

He shrugged her words off as he retracted his hand and changed the subject. "So you doing laundry tonight or what? The jeans are throwing me off."

Pulling away and beeping maybe half the recommended time for the pizza onto the microwave timer, she smirked. "I didn't realize me being in pants was that confusing."

"Hey, wear those to go meet Nelson or Red sometime and see if they don't comment, beautiful, beautiful Karen."

She giggled slightly at his surprisingly spot-on imitation of drunken Foggy from her phone the month before. Since Bully had become a semi-common visitor to her apartment, she'd cut back on using 'shut up' as her shushing phrase of choice and she admonished instead, "You hush."

Immediately after, she fully realized just what he'd said. Groaning at the thought of Foggy, she brought her hands up to rub her face and immediately winced when she caught her bruise, "My birthday is in two days. Matt and Foggy are taking me out. This is going to look worse by then, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah." He shrugged, "Don't worry about it. I'm sure Red won't even mind."

She sent him a glare at the blind joke, but he looked far too pleased with himself to care. Digging through the fridge for Parmesan cheese, she realized she hadn't actually answered his jeans question. One of her own popped into her brain.

It wasn't like she actually had much experience doing it herself and she imagined that just about all of his…work was doing it. The actual shooting people didn't take that long. Ben had taught her that she didn't need to know everything. She just needed to know when to ask for help with the stuff she didn't, expert help as often as life and money allowed. Frank was expert help.

Leaning on the fridge door, she asked suddenly, "Do you want to come on a stakeout with me tonight?"

"A what?" The question clearly hadn't been one he was expecting. She saw him blink at her in confusion a few times. The action made her smile a little.

"A stakeout. Or, what's the military term…? Recon! Do you want to come do some recon with me tonight?"

"…Sure."

Hip-checking the door closed, she set the cheese on the counter beside him and grabbed plates. When she set them down, he'd taken a fork out of the drawer for her. Even straight out of the oven and hot enough to burn his fingers, he refused to use a fork with pizza. The one time she'd asked, he'd very vehemently said something about it being a cardinal New Yorker sin. He'd told her to ask Red if she didn't believe him.

"So the jeans are for the recon?" He seemed decidedly more comfortable with that version of the word and she made a mental note to always go to the military version of things if she knew of one.

She nodded, "I didn't think sitting on a roof holding a camera in a skirt would be much fun…"

"Shit, does this mean you're going to wear real shoes, too?"

"I always wear real shoes, Frank," she huffed, sending him a look over her shoulder. "Just because your feet never see daylight doesn't mean my shoes are bad."

Leaning back against the counter, propped up on his elbows in a posture reminiscent of how he took up most of the couch, he shrugged and shot back with a grin, "Mine don't make me limp when I walk up a flight of stairs after eight hours in them."

She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a raised eyebrow. "You're the kind of man who sleeps in his socks, aren't you."

His smile softened a bit and he nodded. "Yeah, until I got married. Maria was all over me about it. I don't know why. Why can't a man wear socks in his own bed?"

"Because it's your bed! You're not walking on anything. You don't need socks."

"Until I get _out_ of bed."

They looked at each other for a few minutes and Karen knew that neither of them was going to back down. She also knew that they were arguing about socks of all things. When her straight face faltered and laughter broke through, he smiled back at her.

"I was that kind of guy," he explained when she wasn't so laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. "She trained me right. Every time I came back from a tour overseas, I knew I was home because I didn't have to wear socks all the time, didn't have to be constantly ready to jump into my boots. I've been bad about remembering lately."

"You should get in the habit again," she offered gently before the microwave began beeping that the pizza was ready. Without further conversation, the two of them fell into what Karen realized was their dinner routine. She grabbed the food out of the oven, he dished, and she got drinks, coffee for both of them at the moment. Tonight, she perched herself on the counter as he just slid back onto her stool, blowing on his four hundred degree Fahrenheit crust like that was supposed to help before he picked up his first slice.

Halfway through that first piece, he nodded toward her bags, "So what's this recon for? You going for something specific on this O'Brien or just whatever you can find?"

"Something specific." Slipping down, she started rifling through her files with her cleaner hand. "I didn't just talk to the owners of the places that got hit. I talked to just about everyone who has a similar store in Hell's Kitchen. It was only the people who were illegal who he targeted. So, unless he's somehow hacking into immigration databases—which I think he's way too blunt of an instrument to be doing—then he's either paying someone to do it for him, someone with that kind of access is having him work for them, or there's someone those people all trust who's snitching to him."

Pizza in one hand, he looked over the notes she spread in front of him. "So you think there's somebody higher up?"

"Possibly. At least someone else involved." She shrugged, "It could just be an ICE employee with that kind of access looking for extra cash, somebody from the neighborhood looking for it, or something more sinister, but either way I don't like loose ends I don't have any proof of. I'd rather _know_ something is nothing. In the gang vacuum that's opened up since you got here, O'Brien has been one of the first to plant his flag. He doesn't have a lot of guys, maybe a dozen, twenty at most and this is the most violent they've gotten so far, but he does a poker game every Wednesday night at the same bar. All the bodega owners I talked to said they were approached on a Thursday. It could just be coincidence, but…"

Watching Frank glance over her notes, absently chewing, it became very apparent to Karen that she'd never told him this much about her work before. She'd never told anyone this much aside from Ellison. It was nice to have someone else to run things by. Ellison thought like an editor, of what could be proved and what would sell papers, which was good but not quite the same. Even though he hadn't actually said much, babbling all her suspicions out to Frank kind of felt like when she'd worked with Ben.

She did her best not to fidget as he took a few quiet minutes to mull over what she'd told and shown him. Even as she attempted to nonchalantly chew at her melted cheese and pepperoni, she caught the sideways glance and smirk that appeared on his face before he finally spoke, "You're thinking that whoever is giving him names is somebody he meets with at these games. Makes sense. Probably not a bad place to start. Any idea what these games are like, who comes to them?"

"Not really. From what I can gather he's more trying to play gangster than actually doing anything at them. He saw it on a movie or something. It's just 'what mobsters do'. I do know he usually loses. I was hoping to get pictures, look at faces of the others who come tonight."

"Sounds good. When do we go?"

She glanced at the clock. "As soon as we're done eating."

"Yes, ma'am." The look of amusement he always got when she told him what to do was plastered across his face.

Gathering her notes back up, she rolled her eyes at him, "You hush, Marine."

They'd fallen back to silence and she'd climbed back onto the counter and finished half her coffee before he spoke again. Pouring himself another cup, he was glancing at her bags when he asked, "Why were you a legal assistant?"

At her confused look, he elaborated, "Except when it came to finding out the truth about my family, you never seemed as…excited feels like the wrong word, but excited about what you did as you do about this stuff."

"I…guess I wasn't." Leaning more heavily against her cabinets, she tried to find words for the feeling that she'd always had but hadn't acknowledged until he'd just pointed it out. "I liked helping people and trying to sort out their problems, fixing things, and… after Ben I was scared. Nelson & Murdock was safe. When you and your family came out…I cared more about finding out the truth than being afraid. How dangerous it was just wasn't that important when I sat and thought about it, when Matt and Foggy told me to back off, to let it go. And then there wasn't a safe Nelson & Murdock to go back to, so here I am."

Frank made a noise deep in his throat at her explanation. Voice slightly hoarse in the way it only ever was after he'd started on his second cup of coffee, he noted, "You're good at it."

"Are you saying the Punisher reads my articles?" she asked with a quirked smile.

"Yes, ma'am. Every single one of them." Before she could do so much as thank him for his readership, he nodded toward the coffeemaker, "If we're going to do recon, we're going to need as much of that as your biggest thermos will physically carry. More if at all possible."

Reaching into her bag and pulling out the other thing she'd borrowed from a colleague that day, she held up the ridiculously big travel mug the woman who wrote the relationship advice column consumed every day. Smiling, she said simply, "Way ahead of you."

She moved to pour what was left in the pot into the mug before starting a new batch, glad that she'd thoroughly scrubbed the mug out in the women's restroom earlier that day. Within another thirty minutes, she'd rapped on her next door neighbor's door to tell the elderly Serbian woman that she was going out for the night. As two women living alone, they kept track of one another like that, and now that Karen was cooking on a somewhat regular basis, they also shared leftovers.

In another twenty, she and Frank were perched on the roof of the building across from O'Brien's bar. Snapping pictures of everyone that came or went in the questionable light, they sat in silence and passed the coffee back and forth.

When a lull in the patrons appeared, she could feel the well-known gaze he sent her as she sat back and fought a yawn. Leaning over and bumping his shoulder, she preempted his question. "Not tonight, Frank."

"Okay." Passing her the coffee, he noted with a lighter tone, "You know, it's not fair that Bully knows and I don't."

Karen knew he was trying to make her laugh but she couldn't manage more than a weak smile. "Lots of things aren't."

He shrugged a nod and said with a bitterness his voice didn't hold nearly as often anymore, "Yeah, ain't that the fucking truth."

"But Frank…" She waited until his all-knowing brown eyes shifted to hers and then held them for a long moment. "Thank you…for still asking."

Less than a foot away from him, she could see the surprise flash in his eyes and the flicker of something else immediately after. He looked away first and cleared his throat a couple of times. She handed him the coffee and he took a long draught before saying levelly, humor lurking right under the surface that was supposed to distract her from the feelings on his face, "Anything for you, beautiful Karen."

"You hush."

Two days later, she somewhat drunkenly stumbled to the door of her apartment after her birthday party, Foggy and Matt in tow because she had a black eye and someone had threatened her and they weren't going to let her out of their sight. So used to Frank's more subtle touch, she knew the alcohol was a key component in her not having blown up at the two of them at some point during the night.

As Foggy rushed himself to her bathroom, complaining about breaking the seal, her eyes were drawn to two things on her counter that hadn't been there when she left hours before. She vaguely heard Matt asking her something, but she didn't really take notice as she stepped closer, smile pulling across her face. Neither wrapped, just with a light blue bow stuck to the top of the cookies, she reached for the package of gingersnaps and the understated but wonderful bouquet of lilies.

Of course Frank was the sort of man who bought a woman flowers for her birthday and remembered which kind she'd mentioned once, _once_ , that she liked. And, of course, he was the sort who remembered the single time she'd said she ate gingersnaps and pretended to be in a spaceship when she was a kid. Of course he was.

She started laughing when she found the nametag amongst the flowers that merely said 'Ma'am'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	7. July

Deep down, Karen knew that she should've waited longer outside her office for a cab. Ellison had said she needed to be extra careful. Nothing was too paranoid until they got her story on O'Brien and his attempts to step into the spot of Hell's Kitchen's unfriendly neighborhood crime boss into print. Even then, paranoid was probably for the best until the cops caught up with her reporting.

But it was warm, a few hours after the sun had gone down, and she could tell it was going to start raining soon. In the time it took to get a cab flagged down, she could be over halfway back to her apartment. Hand inside her bag, fingers curled around her pistol, she started the walk.

The sky was spitting out raindrops when she got the feeling in her stomach, the itch on the back of her neck. She had no idea where it came from or what it meant…except that it was wrong. Something was wrong. Her fingers tightened against the already warm metal of her gun. Her index finger started twitching and a part of her wondered if she'd been around Frank too long.

That was when she heard it and subsequently cursed herself for not having noticed it before. Only just louder than the rain and her heels clicking as she quickened her pace, she could hear the low idle of a vehicle behind her…only there weren't any headlights piercing the darkness on the block the streetlights didn't take care of.

Something must've shown on her face because the few people she passed who made even marginal eye contact quickly averted their eyes, glancing over her shoulder and hurrying along themselves. One thing that could be said for the residents of Hell's Kitchen, they knew how to mind their own business. They kept their heads down and kept going.

Some of the sputtering rain had gotten into her shoes, making her skin rub uncomfortably against the insides and her heels slip. She was about two seconds from taking them off and breaking into a run when she heard the squeal of tires from behind her. With a scream, she only just got herself out of the way when the old beater swerved onto the sidewalk right in front of her.

Her pistol was out and in both hands before the sound was completely out of her throat.

Not caring if it was the wrong direction, she stumbled out of her shoes and flew at a dead sprint back in the direction she'd come, away from the car. Even hiked up to her thighs, her pencil skirt didn't give her much of a stride and far too quickly she heard panting, pounding footsteps, and a roaring engine coming after her.

She heard the squeal of brakes at the same moment her feet left the ground and the right side of her body smacked into something hard. Vision flickering in and out of blackness, she only realized she was face down on the asphalt, her chest screaming and straining for breath, when she heard the voices above her.

"What the _fuck_ , Jimmy! We were supposed to grab her and take her back, not hit her with the fucking car!"

"I was only going like five miles an hour! She's fine, probably just knocked out, which we would've had to do anyway. Just grab her and let's go. I don't wanna be out on the fucking town when Daredevil and the fucking Punisher clock in for the night."

She heard grumbling from the first man and at least two others. Finger still twitching, she slowly noticed that she still her gun in her hand, her knuckles scraped to hell but her grip as solid as a death grip. Moving as little as possible, she flicked the safety off.

Karen didn't hesitate when she felt a hand on her shoulder and it promptly rolled her over. The sound of her shot ripped through her ears before she fully realized her twitching finger had pulled the trigger and the recoil slammed into her newly injured wrist. A man she vaguely recognized as one of Connor O'Brien's thugs shrieked as fire tore through his shoulder and sent him onto his ass.

Aside from her labored breathing, none of them made any sound or chanced a move for the next ten seconds. Holding back tears and the need to throw up, she looked at the three men before her down the barrel of her pistol.

"Fucking _bitch_!" the man leaking blood all down his shirt finally shouted, breaking the spell.

Before she could fire again, she heard the sound of sneakers on wet pavement behind her. The hit to her head came just as she caught sight of the fourth man over her shoulder and the flickering blackness took full hold.

* * *

When she came to again, she felt wetness on her face and the sound of a voice trying to be both Irish and New Yorker was all that made it through the ocean her ears were surrounded by.

"Aye, yeah, here she comes."

A sharp slap to her face hauled her out of the ocean and deposited her firmly, painfully back on solid ground. Groaning deep in her throat, her eyes blinked open to see the face before her. She'd never found Connor O'Brien particularly attractive and that didn't change with closer proximity.

He grinned at her, "Yeah, here she is, my little bitch of a lass. You're the first blonde I haven't wanted to fuck, you know that? Like _at all_ , in the slightest."

A dull throbbing in the back of her skull, she only partly noticed what he said. She couldn't blink away the dizziness gripping her head and her eyes wouldn't focus. Her right arm was bleeding through her torn shirt sleeve, the cream already overtaken by red. Holy shit, how _did_ Frank do this? Be hurt all the time. Between the thought of him and the angry fingers that closed around her throat and started to squeeze, all remnants of her haze vanished. Connor's face, arm stretched out toward her, focused in before her eyes.

"Hey you listen when I fucking talk to you! You got me, bitch?"

Eyes fixated on his wrist, the only thing she could see before his hand disappeared beneath her chin where it was squeezing, she nodded shakily. "Y-Yes."

"Aye, good."

She took in a desperate gasp of air when he let her go and turned around. Immediately, Karen's eyes shot around her surroundings. Connor and fifteen other men, including the one she'd shot earlier, were on a roof and she was in a crumpled heap at the base of the building's water tower. Her gun was in Connor's hand and her bag was on the ground a few feet away. She'd gotten used enough to noticing guns on Frank that she could spot all the ones these men carried inside their jackets and in the backs of their pants, a few just out and in their hands.

As the reality of the situation dawned on her more fully, the black at the edges of her vision retreated and just how very fucked she was started to pump through her chest.

She wasn't sure what Connor's end game actually was—scare her, rape her, kill her, whatever way he chose to try and silence her—but he was well-staffed to accomplish any of it. Without having to ask, she knew why he was going so heavy on the manpower just for her. Between Matt and Frank protecting the streets, going out in numbers was as smart a plan as any for the criminals of Hell's Kitchen.

Only a desperate hope in her chest, she slid her eyes around to the neighboring rooftops. Through the sputtering rain and light pollution, she couldn't see anything. No red mask with horns. No white skull spray-painted onto Kevlar. Not tonight. She was on her own.

"Now you, Karen Page, you are a real pain in my ass. Do you know that?"

Connor looked to her expectantly and she had to cough against the blood congealing in her mouth before she replied, "I'm sorry…"

"Aye, not yet you're not."

He nodded toward her with a jerk of his head that looked more like it belonged in a bad action movie than her real life, but it was real enough when two of the men beside her grabbed her by each arm and hauled her up. Her bloody right shoulder crunched sickeningly at the force and a scream ripped from her mouth.

It echoed off the buildings around them, cutting through the sounds of the city at night and it immediately gave her an idea. Matt had said once that he listened. He knew where to go because he listened. She kept screaming with as much oxygen as she could suck in, so loud that her throat was raw and her ears rang.

"Oh shut up!" Connor shouted back at her, vaguely waving her gun in her direction before bending down and grabbing her bag. "Come on. The quicker we get this done the better."

Grin on his face, the man walked over to the edge of the building and nonchalantly sat on the ledge. He smiled back at her as he took her bag and held it out into the open air. Her already pounding heart went ragged when he released his grip and it plunged the six floors down to the sidewalk. Over the blood hammering in her ears, she could hear her laptop come to its violent end.

"Aye, let's send you after your work, shall we?"

She struggled against the holds the men had on her, her bare feet scraping against the roof. She hardly even felt the cuts that had her leaving bloody footprints the closer they got to the edge. He never felt the pain until after, Frank had said. Holy shit, she needed an after. With everything she had, Karen wanted an after.

The sob gathering in her throat didn't think she was going to get it.

Trying and failing miserably to keep the shake out of her voice, she noted, "Throwing me off a roof is a bit of an escalation, isn't it? Y-You sure you want to step it up to murder? I hear that gets you visits from a man with a skull on his chest."

"Oh, I'm not worried about the Punisher, lass." The over a dozen armed, jumpy men around him said otherwise, but she stayed quiet. "The way I figure, what better way to take it to the next level, take my spot, than showing everyone in Hell's Kitchen that I silence the people who talk shit about me. You see, come tomorrow, the cops will have come and hauled your body away and your little fucks down at the paper will write a nice article about you and how fucking sad it is that you're dead. And everyone will know it was me. They won't be able to prove it, but they'll know that I'm the one who made you eat pavement, made sure you have a closed casket."

She was at the edge, her struggling having accomplished nothing, and all she could do was look down at the sidewalk so very far below. One of the men had a hand digging into her back, perfectly ready to give a simple shove and be done with it.

Standing there, staring down at her own death, she felt it again. Once before in her life, Karen had sat seemingly helpless as a man threatened everything she was and everything she loved. He'd sat there and smiled at her, so fucking pleased with himself. James Wesley had been infinitely more intelligent than Connor O'Brien and tenfold more intimidating because of it, but that hadn't stopped her before.

There was something about people threatening her life that made her backbone straighten, her eyes narrow, and her chest fill up with every bit of righteous anger that burned so viciously inside her. Because fuck them. The last thing they saw wasn't going to just be her fear. She wondered for a fleeting moment what Ben's last words to Fisk had been. Had he been like her? Had he even had the chance?

She braced her ragged feet against the low wall, struggling against the hold on her arms a last time, before turning to Connor. She smiled faintly, "It's cute you think that will work."

His smile shrunk into a glare and he pointed her gun at her, pressing the muzzle against her forehead. "It's a nice piece you've got here, lass. You pick it out yourself?"

She just stared back at him as he thought about pulling the trigger, pondered if he'd rather just shoot her right there or get the poetic ending he'd been going for.

He hadn't decided yet when the head of the man on her left exploded.

Screaming, she threw herself down to the roof as another half dozen gunshots filled the air. Over the shouting of Connor's men, more than one of them firing back at the darkness, she heard a well-known voice, "No killing, Frank!"

"Not the fucking time, Red!"

A smile she knew was on the hysterical side stretched across her face. A red streak she immediately realized was Matt started punching its way through the men around her, bones crunching in his wake. A roar she'd heard once before, huddled beneath a counter in the back of a diner, broke through all else and like a dark, angry shadow Frank swung his assault rifle at the nearest head.

For a short second, she just breathed, stayed completely still and just breathed air into her aching chest and thanked whatever was looking out for her for not taking that particular night off. Then the foot stepped on her wrist, pulling another scream from her. Her gun still in his hand, Connor was trying to run. His men were holding their own but falling steadily and he was going to run. And that meant he could try again.

She scrambled to her feet, tripping initially, and ran after him. With a shout, she lunged forward and wrapped both arms around his waist. They both crashed to the roof and she immediately started pounding his hand against the concrete. Blood rushing through her ears, adrenaline raging through her body, she didn't even feel it when he punched her ribs once and then again. As soon as the pistol was out of his grip she snatched it up and pointed it at him.

Matt and Frank were still fighting, far fewer men upright even those few minutes later. She sent the brawl a sideways glance, unwilling to take her attention off Connor for long. She almost missed it because she was moving her eyes too quickly, but something made her look back. One of the men on the ground was still conscious. Groaning against whatever injuries he had, he was raising his gun at the nearest target.

"Frank!"

She saw him look over his shoulder just in time for two shots to go off. The man's hit Frank in the back, stopped dead by his Kevlar. Hers caught the blonde man in a basketball jersey and expensive sneakers where his neck and shoulder met. Her hands started to shake even harder when he began gurgling on the ground, blood spitting up out of his mouth, flowing down his face toward his ear.

Holding in another scream, she caught Connor moving and she swiftly pivoted back, Matt and Frank forced to the back of her mind.

But Connor was up and charging into her before she could get another shot off, the gun skittering away. The back of her head smacked into the concrete again and her vision flickered violently. She felt the knife slide into her while the world was still dark. It was along her side, catching skin more than anything. He'd missed. When her sight flashed back to life, Connor had pulled it out and had the knife raised to plunge back in and hit something much more central, more vital. She could see it in his eyes. He was going to kill her.

Arms flung out to both sides, she could just feel something metal at the tips of her right fingers. Her body didn't hesitate.

Her fingers wrapped around the piece of pipe, probably something left over from the last time the water tower was maintained, and she swung. She felt the crack in her wrist at the same time Connor's skull collapsed beneath the metal. He crumpled to the side from where he was straddling her. She followed and her arm swung again and then a third time.

She didn't realize that the primal wail cutting through the air was coming from her until she had to take a breath and it paused for a second.

Connor's head was gushing blood and something grey and mushy was coming out of the side, but her arm raised up to hit him again. She had to be sure, something terrified inside her screamed. She had to be damn fucking _sure_. She didn't get to land the final blow because a red baton zipped through the air and knocked the pipe from her hand. It clattered to the rooftop a few feet away. Matt's voice smacked into her ears a second later.

"Karen! Karen, stop! Stop…"

Her wail devolved into a keening sob as she pushed herself away from the bloody lump that had once been the man's head. Her right wrist lying at an odd angle, she brought up her left hand to cover her mouth.

"Oh shit, shit…Oh my god."

She whimpered against the hand over her mouth until the dizziness spiraled beyond her control looking at what she'd done. Unable to do anything with her right hand, she leaned against her left and threw up right there. It was all over her fingers and in her hair and there was blood, _so much blood_ , and the splitting pain in her side made her try to scream mid-vomit.

Hands too big and too warm to be Matt's ignored the half-digested food and stomach acid and pulled her blonde hair out of her face. Frank's arm wrapped around the front of her shoulders, holding her up when her elbow buckled. She clutched desperately at him with her working hand and he gently shushed her until her stomach quieted.

She went straight from throwing up to sobbing but he didn't tell her to stop. Pulling her away from the puddle of vomit and leaning her against the edge, he just whispered, "It's okay. You're okay. Come on, let me get a look."

She screamed in pain when he pulled her right arm away from her body, her sleeve hardly even attached anymore and the fabric red all the way through. The dizziness was getting worse and she could feel blood from the knife wound flowing down to her thigh.

"Since when do you have a gun?"

Looking over to Matt crouched a few feet away beside Connor, she saw it in the bit of his face that was revealed by his mask. More than that, she could hear it in his voice. He'd just seen—in whatever way he was capable—her shoot one man in the neck and literally bash another's skull in with a pipe. He was…disgusted by her. He'd witnessed her newest dark and terrible and he didn't like what he saw.

Whatever picture of her he'd kept inside himself, whatever he'd thought was Karen Page in his mind had just been shattered.

Anger was easier to grab onto than the soul-shattering knowledge that she agreed with him and she shot back in answer, "Since people started wanting to fucking kill me, Matt!"

"Not now, Red," Frank demanded, voice harsh. Turning back to her, he said more softly, "Hey, hey, no yelling. You can be pissed off at him when you're patched up."

"I-I don't understand, Karen. I—"

"What part of not right fucking now do you not understand, Red?!" the man knelt in front of her, hands covered in her blood, roared over his shoulder. "What else is there, Karen? Is it just the arm and the wrist?"

Biting her bottom lip, she lifted her left hand away from where she'd been pressing against her bleeding side. Her vision was starting to waver again. "They might've hit me with a car, too…"

"Fuck." He reached forward and pulled her shirt out of where it was tucked into her skirt. "Fuck…"

One of the few things she could still see through her dizziness was the terror in his eyes. She smiled faintly, the blood probably negating any comfort she could convey, "Hey, it's okay. I'm not your job, Frank."

The look she never understood bored into her in that moment and she was sure that if she could've felt them, her toes would've gone extra tingly. She'd made it to the after and all the hurt had slammed into her, but she wasn't sure that was why she couldn't breathe.

His voice was hoarse when he pushed a bloody strand of hair out of her face, "Yes, you are. Hey, hey, hey. Open your eyes back up. I reenlisted and you're every bit my job. You got that? We need to get you to a hospital. Altar boy!"

The thought of Frank walking into an ER with her pushed the haze from her vision. Covering her side back up, she let out a deep breath that came out another sob. In the distance she heard sirens coming their way. It might've just been her probable concussion, but she thought she saw blue and red light bouncing off the buildings a few blocks down, too.

"No." She shoved weakly against his shoulder. "The cops are coming. They'll take me. You both need to go. _Go._ Don't make it my fault you get caught by the cops. Either of you."

To his credit, Matt didn't seem particularly pleased with the idea of leaving her either, but the stubbornness on his face was nothing compared to Frank's. They were both going to learn a lesson about the stubbornness of Karen Page when she was bleeding out on a rooftop surrounded by dead or unconscious bodies of men who'd just tried to kill her if they didn't get going. Given she could only use one arm, breathing _hurt_ , and she was quickly losing the ability to see, that probably wouldn't be terribly intimidating but she ignored that truth.

Filling her voice with every last bit of strength she could wring out of the pain, she shouted, " _GO!_ Now! Matt, don't make me say it again."

She let out a sigh of relief when Matt pushed himself to his feet and tugged on the strap of Frank's Kevlar. "Frank, come on. The cops are less than a block away. She's going to be okay."

When they were both out of sight, disappearing into the darkness, she leaned over and threw up again. Pulling herself across the concrete with her left arm, trying and failing to crawl a few times, she snatched her gun back up when one of the men on the ground started groaning. She huddled there, shaking, with the gun pointed in his general direction until the cops burst through the door to the roof.

Brett was one of the first and she immediately saw the recognition on his face.

"I might've found another shit storm, Brett…"

Two rooftops over, Frank's hands were shaking. It was more than just the nervous energy he always had. It was more than just his trigger finger twitching. His hands were fucking trembling.

And his chest felt like someone had just hit it with a battering ram, his ribs collapsing into his heart, his lungs too squished to get in any oxygen. He was almost blind with the pain of it.

But there was nothing wrong with his chest. His only broken rib was from a fight two weeks before and it was half healed. Tonight, it had barely even taken a hit. The bullet to his back would remain more annoying than painful until he pulled the vest off. No, there was nothing physically wrong with his chest or any part of him really. That didn't make it any easier to breathe.

Panting, whether from exertion or seeing his friend beat to hell, Red was bent over at the waist beside him, hands braced on his knees.

"Get out of here, Altar Boy. Go home, put on some normal fucking clothes, and go to the hospital."

"What?" Seeing her flatten the shit out of that asshole's skull really had thrown the guy for a loop.

Frank growled and shoved the man, not entirely sure he wouldn't pull his rifle and point it at him if he didn't move his ass, "Get to the fucking hospital! You're her friend and you're not dead and I fucking can't, so get to the damn hospital, Altar Boy!"

Whatever haze of confusion Red had been swimming around in seemed to clear and he stood. With the mask covering his eyes, Frank couldn't quite tell what the man was thinking, but he could guess easily enough. He wanted to know why Karen seemed to still be on good terms with him, why she was talking to him like she knew him, like they were friends. He wanted to know why the look on his face was pretty damn close to one that would've been there if they were talking about his murdered family.

Red was blind but he wasn't stupid. It hadn't been his best moment when he had the bright idea to not love Karen back, but when it came to the world around him, the man could probably see better than somebody with eyes that worked. How didn't matter, but Frank knew that he could. He was perceptive.

On the street below the ambulance pulled up to the curb. He looked down to it when they opened the backdoors and he saw Red tilt his head toward it, listening or whatever it was he did. He didn't wait to see them bring down a stretcher with a blood-covered blonde strapped to it. Taking a step closer, he grabbed Red by the material at the base of his neck, "Not tonight, Red. You don't get your answers tonight. Now go after that ambulance…Please."

The man glanced down at the hold he had on his suit, pensive. After a moment, he gave a short nod, "Alright."

As soon as he let him go, he sprinted across the roof, flipping onto the next one and vaulting over walls. Letting out a long groan, Frank sunk down to the ground and propped his elbows against his knees. He rubbed his face with a bloody hand once before letting his head fall back against the brick behind him.

In an effort to make the world stop spinning so wildly around him, to focus on something, _anything_ , he muttered quietly while staring upward, "One batch, two batch. Penny and dime."

* * *

"Can you think of anything else you can tell me, Karen?"

Hissing as the nurse beside her bed bumped her new wrist splint, Karen shook her head as gently as she could manage.

Moving wasn't a comfortable activity at the moment. Between the bruised hip bone where she'd been hit by the car, a mild concussion from multiple smacks to the back of the head, four bruised ribs from hitting the asphalt and Connor punching her in the chest, raggedly cut up feet, a sprained shoulder, severely scraped up right side of her body, the stab wound that had taken four stitches on both the front and back, and a nearly broken wrist that would have to be in a splint for the next four to six weeks, the most comfortable she'd been since getting to the hospital was inside the CT scan to check for internal bleeding where she wasn't supposed to move.

Still on the initial wave of painkillers they'd shot into her so they could patch her up, it had been a beautiful half hour. It was only dampened when she'd started frantically asking in her compromised state where Frank was, why wasn't he there. She wasn't sure how Matt had explained away her desperate sobbing, but no one had asked her about it. They'd been strong drugs.

"No, Brett. I think that's everything."

The man smiled sympathetically at her as he put away his notebook, "Alright. As strange as I feel saying it, I think Daredevil and the Punisher actually did me a favor tonight. I wish everyone had your luck when it came to him. Attacked once, kidnapped after that and now he's saving your life."

"Maybe he doesn't think I need to be punished. He's not a bad person…just extreme."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense." He didn't sound like he actually found much sense, but she ignored the lie. Laying a comforting hand on her shin through the blanket, he concluded, "I'll know where to find you if I need anything else, but I don't think there's going to be much more to say about all this. We'll try and get your personal effects back to you as soon as we can. Heal up, Karen."

"Thanks," she returned, watching as he nodded to Matt and Foggy before walking away from her hospital bed and turning down the hall. The hospital was busy and she hadn't gotten her own room. She wondered fleetingly if Brett got tired of having cases that came to him already closed because of Matt and Frank. Pulling her injured wrist to her chest, she looked to the nurse, "I'm sorry, when do you think I'll be able to go home?"

Foggy's head swiveled to look at her with wide eyes. "Jesus, Karen, you just got here."

"Yeah, and aside being beat to hell, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm stitched back together. I want to go wallow in pain in my own bed and in my own pajamas."

The nurse smiled kindly at her and replied before the scoffing Matt and Foggy could say anything, "We'll keep you for at least a few more hours, until morning. We need to let you try and get some sleep and wake you up just when you're getting comfortable to keep an eye on that concussion being worse than we thought. After that, you're right. You need some bedrest. Call in all the sympathetic friend favors you can get, start begging with your boss."

Double-checking her greatly lessened painkiller drip, the nurse excused herself after saying with a glare to her visitors that she needed to rest.

Foggy let out a sigh and shrugged, "That kind of sounds like we're dismissed for the night."

She smiled, "Go home, Foggy. I know you have work in the morning and all I'm going to do for the rest of the night is sleep. I promise I'm okay. Just don't mention to Marci tomorrow that you're so tired because you were with me. I'm in no condition to defend myself from the jealous lawyer woman."

He laughed a little before moving past Matt and leaning over the bed to hug her. It hurt but she kept the groan of pain inside, too grateful for the show of comfort to mind a little more ache. Pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead before pulling away, he ordered, "Just don't try and take the cab back to your apartment alone. Call one of us. I'm a partner now. I get lunch whenever I damn well please."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Nelson."

"Love you, beautiful Karen."

She hiccupped a laugh that was also a sob, "I love you, too, Foggy."

He hugged her once more before clapping Matt on the shoulder and leaving, too. That left only her and the darker haired man and she was painfully aware of how awkward things suddenly were. She wasn't sure what was causing the most friction: that she and Frank were still friends, that she'd started sobbing because he wasn't there when drugged all to hell, or that she'd murdered two people right in front of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen who refused to kill anyone.

None of them were things she wanted to talk about.

"I need to sleep, Matt. Please, it's been a really long night."

With the closest occupied bed only six feet away, he lowered his voice before saying with what she almost thought was disappointment in it, "I…I want to understand, Karen."

"Understand _what_?"

If he couldn't hear the anger, her complete lack of tolerance for his questions, in her voice, she bet he could in the accelerated beeping of her heart monitor.

"Just…how we got here. How…Karen, how?"

"How could I smash that man's head in with a pipe?" She made her voice as quiet as humanly possible while still retaining her irritation. "Matt, you're a blind martial artist ninja who moonlights as a vigilante, complete with suit and alter ego. You had to learn… _whatever_ it is you do years ago. I didn't. Normal people, weak, simple, normal people who don't know how to fight can't do what you do. When people threaten us, there's a much higher chance they'll succeed than fail and we know it and it's _terrifying_. We get scared and we fight back in whatever way we can. He kidnapped me on the street, hit me with a car, tried to throw me off a roof, and stabbed me. When he was there, I wasn't…I didn't think, Matt. I just kept him from hurting me again. I'm sorry I…"

She breathed shakily through a sob before going on, "I'm sorry I broke your code. I'm sorry you're disappointed in me. I'm sorry I'm not the Karen you thought you knew, sweet, pure, helpless Karen."

"No, no, that's not—"

"Yes it is, Matt!" The two patients across from her both turned to stare and she quickly lowered her voice again. She was crying and when she looked over, there were tears coming from beneath Matt's red glasses, too. "Yes it is. I'm not that girl you have in your head. I'm scared, broken, killed someone and might have to again someday Karen. Matt, I love you. Everything about you…even that stupid Catholic martyr complex you have that makes you think you don't need any help. You're one of my best friends. I still want you to be, but y-you're going to have to figure out if you can still be mine."

She saw in the set of his shoulders, the way he wiped at his face, that he hadn't. It wasn't an instant decision.

"And Frank? Is he your…friend?"

She couldn't tell where the displeasure in his voice came from, some lingering anger because he'd let her go and he thought Frank had found her or that she was so obviously attached to a man he saw as nothing more than a murderer in the shades of black and white that made it easier for him to sleep when he got home from patrolling Hell's Kitchen late at night.

"Yes, Matt, he is. And more than that, he's none of your business."

Tightening his grip on his cane, he stood with his head tilted toward her for a few long moments. Exhaustion that only pain and drugs could induce started to pull on her and her eyes were desperately trying to stay open by the time he finally spoke.

"Well, you're certainly strong Karen now, too. I'm sorry I didn't see it before." His lips pressed into a small smile, trying to lighten the impossibly heavy conversation they were having, leave it on a teasing note, "I'm sure Ben Urich would be proud of the investigative monster he created."

She knew he had no idea that was the absolute worst thing to say to her in that moment, but another violent sob burst out of her. As he flinched at the unexpected sound, she whispered, "I was already a monster..."

She laid there and cried, from deep in her stomach cried, and she didn't notice when Matt silently left. Gently shushing her, the nurse came back and tried unsuccessfully to coax out of her what was wrong. She couldn't talk, couldn't even see out of the hole in her chest, and all she knew was that she wanted that stare. She wanted the look that said it was okay, that he knew and it was okay and she wasn't any kind of broken he couldn't handle.

She wanted Frank Castle to hold her and tell her it was okay in the low voice that rumbled through her.

With little other option, the nurse turned up her painkiller drip and, the drugs flowing through her veins, she slowly dropped off to sleep.

* * *

After getting himself back on his feet, Frank shouldered his rifle and started the long walk home. Bully whined happily up at him when he came in the door. The smell of blood didn't bother the dog in the slightest and he just sat with a wagging tail as he put all his guns back into their places.

Peeling off his heavy coat, he looked down at his hands in the light. They were red and caked with blood. They always were when he got back. While Bully didn't mind the smell, he never licked his hands until he'd washed either. They both knew it wasn't something that was supposed to stay.

Tonight was different. His knuckles were a bit busted up, less than usual actually, and so some of the blood was his own. Some of it was also those pieces' of shit from the roof. But a lot of it was hers. Too damn much of it was hers. It got hard to breathe again and he avoided looking at himself in the mirror when he went to the sink and started vigorously scrubbing.

He'd known ever since that night in the diner that she'd killed someone before. There'd been something in her eyes when she agreed that it wasn't her first rodeo. She'd been resigned and tortured at the same time and he'd known. She had a death on her hands and it was eating her from the inside out because she was that much better of a person than he was.

Now she had two more, one for his sake and one she wouldn't be forgetting in a hurry. With everything he had, he refused to make the connection between that knowledge, _knowing_ how much she was hurting somewhere out there where he couldn't go, and the sharp pain in his chest.

Tongue lolled out, Bully trotted into the bathroom and hopped awkwardly up onto the toilet. The dog never had enough room and half the time he fell right back off, but he liked sitting there next to him when he came home. He stared up at him, a question seeming to lurk in his dog eyes.

"Yeah, you're right. Let's go."

Frank quickly splashed the worst of the blood off his face and changed into something less gory. He tied Bully's leash to his collar and tossed the dog's full food bowl into a small bag along with an extra pistol and his shorter shotgun. They waited across the street in the shadows until the police cruiser parked outside her apartment building pulled away.

The spare key she'd given to him and hadn't remembered to take back slid easily into her deadbolts and her door opened without incident. Yipping happily, Bully tugged the leash out of his grip and trotted excitedly inside. To hell with the fact Frank was the one who fed him, the dog was head over paws in love with Karen and her peanut butter.

He didn't blame him in the slightest.

Letting out a deep breath, he was just about to step inside when he caught the eyes looking at him from next door despite it being two thirty in the morning. As soon as Karen's elderly neighbor saw him looking at her, she opened her door farther and leaned against the jam. She had a heavy Balkan accent when she said simply, "The police came by to ask about her. They said she was hurt. That some," she spat out a harsh word in a foreign language that he didn't need a translation to know was a curse, "tried to kill her."

He nodded, "Yes, ma'am. She's at the hospital."

"You're here to help her." Arms crossed over her chest, she looked him up and down a few times.

It didn't really sound like a question, more an observation that he wasn't allowed to take issue with, but he nodded anyway, "Yes, ma'am."

She was already turning to go back into her apartment when she nodded, "Good. She deserves good man."

Frowning at the feeling that said he'd just been approved of, he stepped fully into Karen's apartment and shut the door behind him. Head hung low, Bully plopped down in front of him after an unsuccessful lap around the space to find her and whined. He put his bag down on the floor where she usually set her briefcase full of files when she got home from work and rubbed his dog behind the ears.

"Yeah, I know it's shit, bud. We have to wait. She'll come back." He hoped Bully couldn't hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Painfully preoccupied, fighting the helplessness he'd felt only a few times before in his life, he set up Bully's bowl by her kitchen counter, pouring the food that had shifted around in the bag back into it, and placed his guns in the corner where she usually put them. He grabbed coffee supplies from where he'd seen her grab them a hundred times before and started a fresh pot. Then, sinking onto the couch and trying to ignore how it smelled faintly of coconut because he was sitting on her side where her hair rested when they sat and ate dinner, ignored bad television and talked instead, and she told him 'not tonight,' he settled in to do the only thing he could that didn't involve being arrested or pissing off Karen.

He waited. And shit, did he hate it.

* * *

Well aware of just how beat to hell she was, Karen took Foggy up on his offer and called him when the hospital decided to let her go at ten the next morning.

Her splinted wrist made crutches problematic at best and her bruised hip begged for someone to lean against when she was up for more than a few minutes. If Foggy was there to take her home, then maybe the hospital wouldn't look at her and decide they wanted to keep her longer. As soon as he was in the doors, she was up out of the wheelchair they'd insisted on and latched onto his arm, shoving her keys and phone the cops had returned earlier that morning into his hands.

She fell asleep against him in the back of the cab, clad in gifted scrubs from her morning nurse, absently listening to his sweet attempts to cheer her up and distract her from her obvious pain. He made an attempt to pick her up and get her out without waking her but her still shattered nerves had her awake, screaming, and swinging at his face as soon as his arms slipped beneath her legs.

Forever the sweetest guy she'd ever known, he smiled off all her apologies and simply took her arm, opened the door to the building, and helped her up with stairs with a cheerful, "Let's get you home, beautiful Karen."

It was strange to hear the epithet from anyone but Frank even though Foggy had coined it.

She was lagging badly by the time they reached her floor. To her surprise, her neighbor was in the hallway, watching them stumble awkwardly up the stairs. The woman pulled her into a hug when she was close enough. Too quietly for Foggy to hear, she whispered, "The dark man with the dog is there to take care of you."

Without any permission from her, her knees sagged and a sob came out of her as a relief as potent as her painkillers flooded her whole system.

"Hey, are you okay?" Foggy asked, resting a hand gently on her shoulder.

She pressed her mouth into a smile and nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I've got it from here. I'm just going to collapse on my bed and sleep until next week. You can get back to work."

He looked at her for a long moment before turning his gaze to her neighbor, "You'll look in on her?"

"Yes, of course."

"Alright, I'm calling you tonight though…and tomorrow morning and tomorrow afternoon and tomorrow night and probably—"

She smiled more genuinely as she took her belongings from his hands and pulled him into a hug, "I get it. Thank you, Foggy. You're a good friend."

"That's what they say. Foggy Nelson, friendship extraordinaire, can occasionally be seen being a pretty damn good lawyer, too."

"Bye, Foggy."

With another look to her neighbor, he finally let go and started retreating down the stairs. She made it look like she was getting her key in place until he was fully out of sight then actually unlocked it her door. With a gentle squeeze to her arm and a quick nod, her neighbor went silently back into her own apartment.

So close to home, so close to safe, and so heartbreakingly close to not alone, her hands started shaking as she turned the key. It was morning. Frank was in her apartment, waiting for her to get home. It was morning and she wouldn't be saying 'not tonight'.

She was two dead bodies past 'not tonight'. She was a death threat and staring down at a sidewalk and the complete, utter, gut-wrenching horror when Matt knocked the pipe out of her hand past 'not tonight'.

When her trembling hands got all three locks open and she collapsed into her apartment, she didn't see him at first. She didn't see anything except excited, happily whining pit bull flying at her from across the room. His sixty pounds hit her like a truck and she crumpled on the spot, smacking into her fridge on the way down.

It didn't matter.

The smile was on her face as soon as he started licking her, tail wagging so forcefully his entire rump was shaking. "Hi Bully! Hi. I missed you, too. Yeah, hi."

Just as she was trying to extract her splinted wrist from where it was painfully smooshed between them, she heard the heavy footsteps approaching. Her tears threatened just from the well-known sound. They started to fall when he knelt down behind the dog and pulled him away by the collar, "Hey, hey, come on. Calm down. You're going to hurt her again."

Bully strained against his grip as he shifted her legs and closed the door with his free hand. She was gasping against the lump in her throat when he flicked the locks closed and then reached out to push her hair out of her face. It was the first time he'd done so without both of them covered in blood and she took full notice of how warm his hands were.

"Hi, Frank."

"Ma'am."

As soon as he fixed her with that look, the watery laughter she managed at their routine greeting devolved into sobbing, deep from the bottom of her chest where her dark and terrible was tearing at her insides she just sobbed. Like when she'd stood in her shower after throwing Wesley's gun into the river and realized with perfect clarity just what she'd done, she covered her mouth to hide how hard it was to breathe.

"Hey. Hey…Karen, you're safe. You're safe. You're okay."

Gentle and understanding and so obviously giving a damn, his voice made it worse and she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't deserve the look. She'd killed three people. She didn't deserve the look that didn't hate her for it. Her lip was quivering so violently her words were stuttered when she whimpered, "I-I-I've killed three people."

"I know."

"Th-They're dead because of me. I killed them."

"I know, sweetheart. It's okay."

She wasn't sure which part made her sob harder, the sweetheart or that he was doing exactly what she'd always known he would, tell her it was okay and that he understood and, most importantly, he stayed. There was no doubting that he would, because as soon as he spoke his hands went to the back of her head and pulled her toward him.

Sliding an arm under her legs, he picked her up and was carrying her across her apartment before she could even open her eyes. When she did, she just buried her face in his neck that was right there and grabbed onto his shoulders with both hands. She vaguely noticed Bully trotting after them, whining quietly because his dog instincts knew that his humans were upset. The dog only hesitated a short second after Frank sat the two of them down on her bed before jumping up after them. He sprawled out across the blanket at the foot and for a long moment she just looked at him lying there with his belly up, tears still falling. She was jealous. He'd been through some shit. He had the scars to prove it and yet he seemed perfectly content with himself, tail constantly wagging.

Frank was still quietly shushing her, running a hand down the length of her hair like he'd been comforting distraught, murderous women his whole life. Minus the murderous part, she supposed he had. Father of a daughter and husband to a pregnant wife twice over, his family had probably given him plenty of practice.

"You're okay."

She wasn't sure how many times he'd said it, but she finally realized it wasn't true. Shaking her head, she gasped out, "No, I'm not. I killed three people. Oh my god, I'm up to three."

"Did you want to?"

Frowning, she looked up at him for the first time. "What?"

That look on his face, he repeated in his low voice, "Did you want to?"

"N-No, but that doesn't change that I did, Frank!"

"Were they going to hurt you?" He added a second later with a flash of the gaze she didn't understand, "Were they going to hurt me? Red, Nelson, your family, other people who didn't deserve to be hurt?"

She knew he was asking about Wesley, the only one he hadn't seen with his own eyes, with the last question and suddenly her mouth was moving, tripping over sobs and wavering inhales.

"H-He was Fisk's assistant, h-his doer. He drugged me and kidnapped me because I was working with Ben. I woke up in this building and he just sat across the table from me, smiling at me. Fucking smiling at me as he told me if I didn't take back what I'd said, started writing about Fisk in a way he liked, he'd kill everyone I cared about, Matt and Foggy and Ben and everyone they could find. Not me, they wouldn't kill me, just everyone around me until I was alone. H-His phone rang and I grabbed his gun off the table. He thought I was bluffing a-and then I put seven rounds in his chest. I," her voice broke even more than it already had, "I watched the light go out. I-I kept going because I wanted him to be dead. I wanted to be sure he wouldn't hurt anyone. I-I saw it go out."

Frank's hand hadn't stopped its movement through the whole story. He didn't take in any sharp, shocked inhales when she said just how viciously she'd shot the man. He didn't move to get up, leave her alone in her apartment and never look back. The only movement she'd felt was his arm tightening around her waist when she said she'd seen the light go out.

Before he said anything, she could feel a difference in her tears. The tumor inside her loosened its grip and her shuddering, her body trying to shake the dark and terrible out, lessened. For the first time, she realized just how warm she was, wrapped up in a cocoon of honesty and concern and Frank that she already knew she never wanted to come out of.

"What did you do? Afterward."

No longer gasping for every breath, she felt his voice vibrating through her ribs. Her eyes partially closed as she really felt his fingers brushing through her hair.

She almost laughed at the absurdity of the memory when she answered, "I drank an entire bottle of whisky and stood in the shower until I couldn't cry anymore."

She felt him nod where her head was pressed into the crook of his neck. "I threw up. In the Marines, the first time I took a shot that hit home on a head that wasn't a silhouette on paper, I threw up for ten straight minutes when I got back to base."

"I do that now."

"Not with a stab wound in your side you won't." She smiled faintly but didn't say anything. "So, they were going to hurt people and you didn't want to. I'm not seeing how you're at fault here."

She blinked slowly a few times, "B-Because I…I _killed_ them. I-I didn't have to _kill_ them."

He shrugged and the movement took her upper half with him. "Do you really believe that? Fuck what Red says for a minute. Do you think that, in that moment, you could've done anything else to stop them from hurting somebody?"

The answer was out of her mouth before she thought about it, second guessed herself into changing her conclusion. "No."

His lips were right next to her ear when he whispered, "Then let go of it, Karen. You don't have to keep it forever."

She started crying again, but the tears weren't such heavy, poisonous things. Sniffing against them, she breathed out, "I'm so tired, Frank."

"I know." He gently pulled her face out of his neck and said with a small smirk, fingers still running through her hair, "I hear concussions will do that to you."

Smiling weakly back, she replied, "Mine is _minor_ I'll have you know."

"Then you can _minorly_ sleep it off." Picking her up again, he helped her to her dresser to grab something besides the scrubs she was in. Given the enormous scrapes all along her right leg and arm, she decided on the softest pajama shorts she owned and the biggest t-shirt. He carried her to the bathroom and then back to her bed when she was done. She didn't quite summon the willpower to tell him she could still walk.

Bully still at her feet, she looked up at the man after she crawled under her blanket and set her head down on her pillow with a sigh that came all the way from her toes. Almost immediately she felt sleep pulling at her, her literally bruised brain begging for rest. She wasn't so tired that she didn't know what she was saying and the uncontrollable loopiness the hospital's painkillers caused had worn off hours ago. But she still found herself looking up at him, the gaze she didn't understand staring steadfastly back at her, and asking quietly, hopefully, "Are you going to stay?"

"Yeah. We'll stay for a while."

"Good," she breathed before reaching out and tugging on his arm until he sat down beside her. Maybe there was a little painkillers still left in her that was granting her such courage. Looking at his feet, she noted with a smile that felt strangely liberating, "You're wearing socks in bed."

"I'm _on_ the bed," he answered initially and she happily basked in his easy grin for a few moments until he leaned down and pulled them off, letting them drop to the floor beside the bed.

She realized it was the first time she'd ever seen his bare feet when she saw the large scar on his left one. Exhaustion still insistently pulling at her, she nodded to it, "What happened?"

"The Irish drilled through it."

"I'm sorry."

She heard him chuckle lightly before she felt his hand return to her head. His thumb brushed over the wispy hairs at her temple and he said quietly, "Go to sleep, beautiful Karen."

Home and safe and so perfectly not alone, it wasn't hard to fall asleep. For the first time since she'd shot James Wesley seven times in the chest, the full, crippling weight of her dark and terrible secret wasn't quite so heavy when she did.

She jerked awake that night to her phone ringing. Before her eyes were even opened, her mouth asked, "Frank?"

"Present and accounted for."

As effective as any drug, relief washed through her.

Groaning, everything between the back of her head and her scabbed feet sore, she blinked blearily until he came into focus. He was sitting on her couch, sprawled out as usual, reading one of her books. The sight made her smile for a reason she couldn't quite grasp and she put it down as being grateful he was still there.

She tore her gaze away and picked up her still ringing phone as she pushed herself into a sitting position. "Hi Foggy."

_"Oh good, you're still alive."_

"Thanks Foggy."

When Frank brought her a cup of fresh coffee a few minutes into the conversation, she smiled again when she saw he was still barefoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	8. August

'A while' for Frank and Bully turned into four days as July slid into August.

He made a token trip back to his apartment every morning to change his clothes, but that was really all. His assault rifle and another two pistols had joined the growing collection Karen had had the idea to store under her bed. His armor and heavy coat were under there, too, so when her friends came to see her and he hid on the fire escape they couldn't tell that the Punisher had basically become her live-in nurse. He'd brought the bag of Bully's food back with him on the second day. Except to go out, the dog hadn't left her side. They both laughed at it, but the thing followed her into the tiny bathroom whenever she had to pee.

Nelson came by once a day. He was scared to death of Bully but he came to check on her anyway. Frank approved. The guy was as good a friend as he was a lawyer. Red had stopped by once and he hadn't bothered to step out the window. The man would've known, heard his heartbeat or whatever he had exactly that made up for his blindness. The visit had been awkward.

Karen wasn't suddenly better, fixed, or whatever she would be when she completely let go of the weight of her guilt, if she ever entirely did. But she was working on it. He could tell that it was lighter. She didn't hate herself quite so much for it, even the vicious bloodiness of O'Brien.

Red's presence made her want to take a step in the wrong direction.

All things considered, morality and the truth of 'you hit them and they get back up, I hit them and they stay down' aside, Frank admired the guy a little. It was hard not to with the level of conviction the man had. What he needed to fucking stop was trying to shove that conviction on everyone else.

Karen wasn't him. She didn't leave her apartment late at night with the express purpose of killing people, criminal or not. She'd never hurt someone without danger weighing on her, the knowledge that she or someone she loved was going to be hurt if she didn't come up with the same determination as the person threatening her. That was different and he wanted to smack the stupidity out of Red at the disappointment and confusion that lingered in his voice. He was glad the man hadn't been back a second time yet.

Karen was going stir-crazy, though. They were similar that way, couldn't sit still without purpose for too long. Her boss had called while he was waiting for her to get back from the hospital. The man left a message saying that as soon as they got more facts from the cops, they were going to run an article about what had happened to her, about O'Brien and Daredevil and the Punisher, but she was banned from coming into the office for at least a week. Security would escort her from the building and put her in a cab back home as gently as possible if she tried. She was too important to not heal up as quickly as possible. She'd scoffed at that, but she hadn't tried to go in.

It was both amusing and a challenge to watch her fight to not start work on something, though. She constantly got an idea and went to look for her laptop only to remember that it had been thrown off the roof. A period of melancholy he did his best to coax her out of always followed. It usually ended with him convincing her to sleep.

Sun starting to go down out her window, she was asleep right then. Bully hadn't given either of them a chance to decide if they wanted to allow him on the bed and the dog was stretched out beside her, paws against her back and nose pressed into her shirt. Frank smiled slightly when Karen twitched in her sleep, making a soft noise in her throat as she rolled over.

The expression was so natural on his face, it took him a few minutes to recognize it. It wasn't just that he was smiling. He smiled more with Karen than anyone and anything anymore. He was used to that, smiling around her, feeling like Frank Castle again, feeling like a human being after everything. That wasn't it. No, the smile was specific, was special, and the feeling in his chest when it spread across his face scared the ever-living shit out of him.

'I'll never feel that.'

That's what he'd said to her in that diner, seeing her all shaken up and confused about Red. And there he was, eight months later and seeing her asleep in bed, snuggled up with his dog—or her dog, _their_ dog, whatever Bully had decided to be—and as surely as he was sitting on her couch, the blonde had reached out, shoved her hand into his chest, yanked his heart out and squeezed.

He hadn't explained it very well back then, how precisely Maria had hurt him so damn much. It wasn't that they fought and they yelled and went out of their way to _really_ injure one another. They hadn't been one of those couples who thrived on sticking knives into each other. That wasn't what he'd meant. It was everything else that had torn his heart out: waking up before her in the morning and watching her sleep, seeing her dance around the bathroom as she took off her makeup at night and sang to old rock music when she cooked breakfast and the way she'd smile at him when the kids were both asleep and they had a quiet hour to themselves in bed.

It was all of that stuff, the tiny things about her that made him worship the ground she walked on for loving him back, that brought the pain. He'd loved his life so much, been so acutely grateful for it, it had hurt.

He wasn't supposed to have ever felt that again. Not tonight. Not ever.

Suddenly needing to get out of there, he pulled his socks and boots on and snatched his hat off its coat hook—it had a spot, for the love of Christ, everything he had, everything about him, she'd given a spot, had taken into her life. It made his hands shake as he hastily tied his boots. They looked like they'd been tied by a six-year-old just learning rather than a full grown man who'd served in the military but they'd work. Keys in his pocket, he silently opened the door and moved into the hall.

His footsteps were loud and heavy as he made his way down the flights of stairs. Karen always recognized them, had said she could tell it was him just by hearing them. Jesus, the woman knew him so well his damn _footsteps_ were identifiers.

He found himself stepping into a bodega a couple blocks away, music in Spanish that Karen probably could've told him the gist of playing in the background. Frank took note of the security camera inside and shifted his face accordingly. No one ever really cared enough to give him a second glance when he was out and about, but he was still careful. Absently, he grabbed things off the shelves and tucked them under his arm. A new container of coffee grounds because they were both basically immune to caffeine, the vanilla almond milk Karen liked, bananas she cut up with a spoon and put in her yogurt, gingersnaps, and a new jar of peanut butter for Bully.

Setting it all on the counter, he avoided looking at the clerk as he pulled out his wallet. After the man said his total in an accented voice, he put a ten down between them. A long moment of silence during which he could feel the stare sitting on him later, the man pushed the money back.

Frank looked up with a frown, gazing at the middle-aged Hispanic man from beneath his hat. The guy just started putting the items in a paper bag, not looking at the money still sitting there. It was only when Frank pushed the bill toward him again that he spoke. Voice lowered, he took a step back from the counter, away from the money, and gave as explanation, "You helped save Miss Page."

It was only then that he noticed the cracked front window. The clerk must've been one of the bodega owners O'Brien threatened, whose story Karen picked up when the police weren't there.

The look on the man's face said that if he didn't take the money back, it was going to sit there until someone decided to take it. He, on principle, wouldn't take money from someone who'd helped keep Karen Page alive. Voice rather hoarse, Frank nodded to him and took the ten back, "Thanks."

" _Gracias_ , sir. Have a nice day."

"Yeah, you too."

Stepping back onto the darkening street, it hit him just what Karen had become.

He and Red did what they did. He punished the ones who'd already killed and hurt. Vengeance didn't have anything to do with it anymore. That had been taken care of. He punished when the law didn't and he would until the need he felt deep inside him said he'd done enough. It wasn't vengeance. It was punishment. Simple. Red gave the law the helping hand it needed in the darkness of Hell's Kitchen, sending people to jail and protecting who he could. They were the gun and fist of the people who couldn't fight for themselves. People believed what they believed about both of them, but he knew that they felt better for having the two of them out there.

But Karen was different. She had no mask like Red, no armor like him. She was out in the open, walking down the street as one of Hell's Kitchen's own. People could see her, could talk to her. She was their voice in a place where keeping one's head down and staying quiet was the best way to get along. And she'd been willing to die for that.

No matter how he scoffed at it, people called him and Red heroes sometimes. Sometimes they called them the opposite, but the conversation was one that was always up for debate. They were the heroes, but people _loved_ her, cared about her. And what she did took a hell of a lot more strength and determination than pulling a trigger or roundhouse kicking someone in the face. She had it in her head that she was weak, hated herself for having killed someone and hated that she hated herself for it. She was the exact fucking opposite of weak, the woman who just believed in him with everything she had. Before she had any reason to, just believed in him with a conviction that rivaled Red's.

His chest ached all the more at thinking about it.

His thoughts had taken him back to the door of the apartment far too quickly. The bag of food under one arm, habit got the key out of his pocket and had it in the door before he could give himself more time.

Karen was up and out of bed, leaned over in front of the fridge. The flash of fear in her eyes evaporated as soon as she stood up and saw it was him. Smiling around the spoon in her mouth, she greeted, "Hi. Where'd you go? And what do you want for dinner? I'm starving."

She did that when she was excited, talked with her mouth half full of whatever she was eating and the utensil she was eating it with. A little bit of yogurt stuck to the corner of her mouth when she put the spoon back in the container, still smiling up at him. His chest contracted.

Shit, there was nothing about this woman that he didn't love.

Yeah, there it was. Four letters smashed into one little word that had the power to dropkick him in the chest and shake his brain loose, rip his heart out and stick it in Bully's food bowl. He wasn't supposed to feel it again. It was supposed to be gone, dead in the ground just like his family. But it wasn't.

Holy shit, it wasn't.

He did something with the bag of food, but he didn't really notice what before he reached out with both hands and pulled her to him. Lips pressed to hers, she tasted like vanilla yogurt. And she was warm, _so warm,_ and her hair was soft when he ran his fingers through it and cradled the back of her head with his hands. And she smelled like coconut and black coffee.

She fumbled with the container of yogurt, trying to get it settled back in the fridge with eyes closed and mouth occupied and she ended up just tossing it in right before grabbing a handful of his shirt. As his tongue slid into her mouth a pleased noise came from deep in her throat. At that moment, the yogurt's precarious position sent the mustard to its side and half the jars of condiments on the top shelf followed.

The domino effect of clattering, or maybe the other sound, jolted him out of his momentary insanity—wonderful, soft, dizzying insanity—and he drew back, putting his hands up like she was pointing a gun at him again. She didn't let go of his shirt right away and the fabric stretched between them until she let it slip through her fingers.

He told himself it was her concussion and how he'd just jumped on her, but another part of him preened rather smugly at how long it took her to blink open her eyes. She eyed him with her fingers pressed to her lips for an uncomfortable second, something between confusion and contentment blinking up at him. As soon as he saw the latter, he quickly muttered with his heart pounding in his ears, "I'm sorry. I…Shit, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be sure."

Smiling softly, she took a step back as he let out a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. She'd always had an unnerving knack for knowing when he needed a little space and when to take the step closer that he wouldn't. Because she knew him and trusted him and believed in him and…loved him.

"Frank, it's okay," she whispered from her spot a few feet away, splinted arm crossed over her chest, other hand pushing hair out of her flushed face. Seemingly following his inner struggle on his face, she repeated, "It's okay. Just…"

She let out a deep breath of her own and when she looked back at him, he immediately knew that he wouldn't be able to look away. She had the smile on her face, the shy one that said she wanted to say something that was painfully important to her and she was scared of opening up so much. It was the look that had sat and told him 'not tonight' for the last eight months.

"I just want you to know that you can still break my heart just being my friend." She remembered what he'd said in that diner, too, it seemed. She'd started to cry silently, but she didn't look away. "Almost a year ago, in the middle of the night, I…I stood on a dock next to a burning ship and listened to them tell me you were dead. And for," her voice broke, "for a little bit I wasn't sure how I was going to recover, because I believed in you and I cared so fucking much. You weren't even the one person in the world who just _got_ me yet. You're my best friend, Frank. I love Matt and Foggy, but…" she smiled faintly, "if you hadn't noticed, I kind of need you."

Karen took a step closer and rested her hand on his forearm, the same touch she'd first given him so long ago. "You're my best friend and I'm going to hold on with both hands however I can for as long as you'll let me…when I can actually successfully grab things with both hands, at least."

She smiled again and the side of his mouth quirked up, though it quickly faded. She was looking at him differently, a different softness than usual pulling on the connection between them. He felt like something was pounding on the inside of his ribs, some caged thing hurling itself against the bars to get out and get to her. It didn't quite make it before she spoke again.

"None of the other stuff matters. I know how much you love your family. You can tear out my heart either way, give it to Bully if you like, as long as you're around. And I want you around. I want somebody close enough to do that. Just don't… Don't ever be sorry, Frank. Be sure."

Heard put like that, Frank was sure. Holy shit, was he sure. Both hands, beating heart, aching chest, willing to go barefoot for the rest of his life _sure._

"I'm sure."

He waited just long enough to see the smile on her face before leaning back on the kitchen stool, tugging on the arm still touching his, and sinking all ten fingers into her hair again. For the first time since his family had been murdered and his life had gone to hell, he just sat back and kissed a woman who was close enough to break his heart, long and slow and deep.

Her arms wound around his neck, fingers dug into the back of his shirt, he noticed her weight shifting off her bad hip. With _complete_ selflessness, he trailed his hands down, grabbed her waist, and lifted her up to perch on his legs. She let out a surprised squeak that made him grin.

She glared playfully at him, "You hush."

"Yes, ma'am."

Something _very_ different lit in her eyes right before she leaned in to wipe the smirk off his face. Holy shit, was he sure…

He was still sure of everything but the time when a voice he'd heard quite a bit in the last few days broke through the sound of their somewhat ragged breathing, "The door was sort of open so I just came in, but I feel like this is a bad time and I should come back…"

At the same time, they both looked to the doorway where Foggy was standing there, blinking at them with rather wide eyes. He only flinched away when Bully trotted happily over, yipping at him.

Back of her hand to her mouth, Karen climbed back down to the floor and did what looked like try to get her breathing back to normal. She looked between the two of them for a moment before letting out a resigned but light sigh, "Foggy, you remember Frank Castle."

Unsure precisely of how he was supposed to proceed, Frank held out a hand to the man. Foggy shifted his briefcase before unsurely taking it. Pulling his hand back, the man nodded, "So, yeah, you're still kind of terrifying even when you're not in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffed...and when you're making out with Karen. Just…thought I'd throw that out there."

Between them, Karen started laughing. She pressed her lips together to try and keep it in but it just made her face go red and the sound got out anyway.

Raising an eyebrow, Frank looked at the long-haired man, "She do this a lot?"

He shrugged, taking everything rather well, or at least he was too shocked to freak out, "Usually when she's drunk is when she gets giggly, but I supposed being caught necking like a teenager will do it, too. What sort of painkillers is she on?"

"Not ones that strong."

"Then yeah, it's the teenager thing. Karen, stop holding it in before you pop a stitch."

Frank smirked as she started laughing outright, leaning against the counter with her arms wrapped around her stomach. He'd probably laugh at the situation if he was in her shoes, too. She'd described her life as ridiculous on multiple occasions. He was starting to see where she got that from.

"Oh here, man who I thought was supposed to be dead but is apparently dating my friend Karen. This was on the ground." Foggy held out the bag of groceries he'd brought back from the bodega. Looking at the clock on the microwave and realizing just how long it had been since he'd come back—the smug part of him grinned again—he placed everything in its spots on the counter…except for the almond milk which had been out of the fridge for too long.

He'd almost forgotten what feeling this sort of smug was like. It got better when Karen looked over at him with an embarrassed smile on her face and she promptly blushed bright red. Oh, he was sure.

Coughing a little, clearly trying to pretend she wasn't the same color as a Red's outfit, she looked to her friend, "D-Do you want to stay for dinner? We were going to eat before…" Her face went bright red again.

The man looked from him to her a few times before warily nodding, "Sure…I wouldn't mind an explanation of," he pointed a finger between the two of them, "this. Just as long as the dog doesn't eat me."

A few hours later, Karen was asleep on his shoulder, legs curled up in his lap, and Foggy was about two beers into grasping the concept that his friend was dating—or whatever precisely his being sure meant—the Punisher. He still thought the guy could use a haircut but once again he'd come to the conclusion that the man was a good friend, was glad that Karen had him in her life.

Letting out a sigh, Foggy shook his head for the umpteenth time. He lowered his voice to a whisper before saying, "I feel like I shouldn't mention any of this to Matt."

He shrugged, "Tell Red whatever you want. If he wants more answers, he can ask her himself. She's not gonna break just because he's mad at her."

"Fair point."

He took another swig of his beer and the look Frank saw gazing back at him was one of a man determined to say something. Setting down the bottle, Foggy let out another sigh before looking him straight in the eye, "Okay, I'm probably going to regret this because, once again, you're terrifying, but I need to say it anyway. I'm not going to go to the cops about you. One, because technically I'm still your lawyer and I'm not going to do that without provocation. Two, because even though I hate that you exist…I'm not so stupid that I don't kind of see a need for people like you and Matt. Three, because even though I always thought you were a pretty out of your mind, psycho murderer, she didn't and she seems…happier than I've noticed in a while, probably since we were trying to bring down Fisk. I don't know, maybe it's because you've done bad stuff and you get some of the bad shit she's been through or something, but she just seemed…lighter tonight. I'm probably not making any sense, but it's not like this is my most logic-driven conversation ever. However, I will find you and call my childhood friend Sgt. Brett Mahoney of the NYPD to come aggressively cart you off to jail and personally switch to the prosecution to bury your ass under every single bit of legal badness I can manage if I ever find out you hurt her."

Oh yeah, he liked Nelson.

"Please do. Don't go Red's route, either. Just fucking shoot me."

Foggy coughed a bit uncomfortably at that but nodded, his sentiment across. Smiling, he gave a nod as he stood, "I'll see myself out. Tell her I'll come by tomorrow…I'll call first."

Nelson had no way of locking the door behind him, so he gently gathered Karen up in his arms and moved to put her on her bed before going to flick both deadbolts closed. She just kept on sleeping until Bully leapt onto the end of the bed and promptly began licking her feet. Giggling, she drowsily leaned down to rub his head.

He was so sure. He'd take every second of the pain she was going to cause him, because he'd gotten lucky once before. He'd known it, stared it in the face, thanked whoever was responsible for it daily. He didn't deserve to get that lucky again, but he had. He'd be a fucking idiot to let go of it, not hold on with both his bruised, cut up hands that she didn't mind.

Grabbing Bully's leash, he walked back over and pulled him down, "Come on, bud. Let's take you out for the night."

Yawning, Karen reached out for him and snatched his sleeve. "Hey, are you going to work later?"

Pushing her hair to the side, he leaned down and kissed the side of her forehead. The smug part of him smirked again at the breath she let out and the soft smile she shined up at him. He somehow knew she wasn't like this when he wasn't there, unguarded and unafraid, and able to sleep even though she didn't have a gun on her nightstand. He liked being that for her.

Nothing was ever this simple and their lives were more ridiculous than most, but along with that acute ache in his chest, he was _happy_. Not just less sad or too driven to care what he felt. He was happy and that was worth the work.

"No, beautiful Karen, not tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	9. September

Karen had nothing to wear.

She did this every time. Ever since she was fifteen and a boy had awkwardly asked her to the movies, for at least an hour before she was set to go out on a date, she just stood in front of her closet hating everything she owned. How did she wear all this crap? It wasn't like it should matter. Frank had seen her at her worst. She'd lived in oversized t-shirts and pajama shorts the entire time he stayed with her after she got hurt. For the love of Christ, she hadn't even worn a bra for the majority of those days. She was far past the need to impress him.

But she wanted to.

For the first time in months, closer to a year really, she was being a normal human being and going out on a date with her…Frank.

Boyfriend felt a little underwhelming, not to mention way too normal for their situation. It didn't quite grasp all that whatever they were was, their togetherness, whatever. There needed to be a word that combined best friend, boyfriend, sort of roommate, shared pet owner, and free therapist…besides spouse. She was a journalist and writing was her job, but when it came to the two of them, she was complete and utter shit at putting words to things. Except good, wonderful, amazing, completing, happy. Those were easy.

Letting out a sigh, she pulled open another drawer in search of something to wear. Glancing over her shoulder, she scolded, "Bully, get your paws off the counter."

The dog pulled back from where he'd had his chin on the counter, staring longingly at the peanut butter jar.

She walked across the space and rubbed him behind the ears. "Alright, I'll give you some peanut butter, but that's it. You have to be good for the rest of the night."

He huffed unhappily, but perked right back up when she got a spoon out of the drawer. Leaving him perfectly content licking at the glob stuck to the roof of his mouth, she cringed when she looked at the clock on the microwave. "Shit, shit, shit."

As usual, her decision was going to be made on the spot because of a lack of time. With a sudden stroke of inspiration, she snatched a blouse out of the drawer and her single pair of jeans. People wore jeans on dates, didn't they? He'd notice out of sheer shock value if nothing else.

She was slipping on her shoes and grabbing a cardigan when he knocked on the door. He still had her spare key but he always knocked. The only reason he'd even left was to give her time to get ready and he still knocked. She vaguely wondered if he'd always been such a blatant gentleman or if she had Maria to thank for it.

"Hi," she greeted after she'd looked through the peephole and unlocked the door. She started to turn away and say, "I just have to grab my bag and I'll—"

He tugged gently on her arm and brought her back to him before framing her face with both hands and kissing her. Knees going slightly weak, she smiled into it as her fingers wound into his shirt.

It still threw her that she got to do that, kiss him whenever she wanted, touch him without it needing to be a show of comfort and solidarity, run her fingers over his scalp when he'd just buzzed his hair short, hold his hand when they took the occasional walk out. He wasn't completely used to it either. Sometimes when she'd step forward to take his hand or lean up and kiss him while sitting on the couch he'd just stare at her like he wasn't entirely sure she was real or like she'd just made a mistake in touching him like that. They were both still getting used to it.

"…be ready to go."

She smiled at the distinctly pleased look on his face when she blinked her eyes back open. Turning to actually grab her bag, double checking that the pistol he'd given to her to replace her old one was safely inside, she could feel his eyes on her when he noticed the jeans. Eyebrow raised, he noted, "I'm not taking you out to do laundry."

"I know that. I just wanted to make sure you noticed."

The look on his face was somewhat offended when he replied, "Of course, I noticed, beautiful Karen."

"You hush…and I know you did." Again smiling, she put her bag over her shoulder and rubbed Bully behind the ears. "Be good. We'll be back later."

Frank grabbed her hand in his large warm one before leading them out the door. Leaning against him a little just because she could, she asked as they started down the stairs, "So if we're not doing laundry, what are we doing?"

"Not doing recon, ma'am." She took that as an indication that she wasn't getting anything else out of him and merely settled in to follow along beside him. It was something she could get used to.

And he still called her ma'am. Usually she was either Karen or sweetheart. The ma'am he'd wielded to keep extra distance, not quite give her a name, was used less often. The teasing he said it with now meant something different than it had before. Very different.

After a dinner of falafel from a street cart—he'd had it overseas once and found a taste for it—they wound up in Central Park again, walking down the paths in the light of the street lamps and talking. They came there a lot, actually. Frank liked how it didn't smell like the city, how it smelled like grass and dirt and trees instead of cars and concrete. She just liked walks, getting out of her apartment or office and stretching her legs, reminding herself why she'd fallen in love with the city.

Maybe half an hour in, he let go of her hand and walked up to one of the vendors, hat pulled low like usual. Without needing to ask, he grabbed himself a black coffee and a strawberry frozen yogurt for her that she immediately dug into.

Karen knew she shouldn't, that it wasn't fair, but she couldn't help thinking back to her single date with Matt. Aside from the rocky, awkward start at the restaurant that was way too fancy for the both of them, she'd thought it was perfect. The Indian place and the lights and the kiss on her front steps. And maybe for the Karen she'd been at the time, the Karen who hadn't _really_ met Frank Castle yet, it had been perfect.

She'd hero worshipped Matt back then, even without Daredevil and all of that. He was the dark, mysterious, blind but still so strong lawyer who'd saved her from a murder charge and just kept surprising her. He'd been exciting in a daydream sort of way, intangible and fantastical even if she hadn't realized it.

Frank was different. He was exciting in that she wanted him so much it hurt, wanted him around, wanted to kiss him, wanted to hear his voice vibrate against her when he talked. It made her heart pound in her throat because it was real. Everything about him was just as real as the memory of James Wesley and O'Brien and whoever the other man on the roof had been. He was real enough to balance out all of her dark and terrible. She hoped she was real enough for at least some of his, too.

And he wasn't a mystery. When it came to him, she just _knew_ things. When to let him stare out the window by himself and when to drag him to the nearest CVS on his daughter's birthday to show him all the glittery nail polish and Dr. Pepper flavored chap stick and overly sticky lip gloss he would've drowned in if she'd reached age ten. It was easy and equal and honest and, as terrifying as the thought was, she wasn't entirely sure she could survive without it.

"You're thinking a lot."

He was looking at her with a pensive, patient stare, like he knew she was deep in her own head and was willing to let her stay if she wanted. And, of course, there was the underlying gaze that she'd finally come to understand, the one that said he loved her because she was his friend and now something wonderfully more and he cared so damn much, even if he hadn't said the words out loud. Grabbing the hand holding his coffee, she stole a quick drink of it, before smiling teasingly, "Some of us do that."

He raised an eyebrow at her, though she wasn't sure if it was because of what she'd said or that she'd stolen some of his coffee, and smirked, "What, are you comparing this to all the other dates you've ever had in your life? You're such a woman, Karen."

She snorted. He loved echoing back things she'd said to him. She wondered sometimes if it wasn't leftover training from being married, his own way of proving that he listened. Squeezing his hand, she bumped him with her hip and noted airily, "You've never complained about it before, Marine."

"No, ma'am." He stared at her with the more recent look that not only made her toes tingly but made the tips of her ears go warm. "So, how's it stack up? The date."

"Well, it's a definite improvement from the last time you took me out to eat and only got me black coffee. I don't think we even paid for that." He smirked over at her before pressing kiss to the side of her head. She sighed softly at the feeling and words came out before she really thought about them, "I miss you."

Her own words made her blink in surprise for a second before she understood why she'd just said that. She saw him every few days. She was cooking, or letting him cook, three or four times a week. But that wasn't enough.

"I…I think you spoiled me back when I got out of the hospital. I want you around all the time. Like," she shifted her gaze away from him and looked at the pavement, "I wake up in the morning and I'm sad you're not there. That's crazy, right?"

She could feel him staring at her but she was too self-conscious to look up until he pulled her to him by the pocket of her jeans and kissed her right there in the middle of the sidewalk. As always, his fingers disappeared into her hair and she let out a sound from deep in her throat that was far too loud for being out in public.

Not quite at maximum brain power, she vaguely noted that he apparently didn't think she was crazy. Maybe it was because he'd had something he loved more than anything in the world before and it had been taken from him. Maybe he didn't want to have any wasted time with her.

Lungs not yet having remembered how to breathe, her eyes weren't open and she more felt than heard his voice when he asked quietly, "Do you want me to go home after we get back?"

Even after a month of them being whatever they were— _together_ —it still made her grin stupidly when he flirted with her and made her toes go tingly. Pulling him back to her with the hand not holding her melting frozen yogurt, she shook her head, "Not tonight."

* * *

What sounded like two prostitutes fighting over the corner down on the street woke Frank up from his dead sleep with a groan. Glancing down, he kept a second one in after noting the time on Karen's microwave.

He needed to go, needed to get to work. He wasn't overly fond of calling it that, but it was about the best way to drop that he had criminals to go put bullets into in casual conversation with her. No matter what he called it, the meth dealer who'd beaten his daughter to death in a drug-induced rage and had been bragging about it to his customers wasn't going to kill himself…probably. The guy was haphazardly planning to skip town, so sitting around wasn't really in the cards.

Running a hand down his face, it took him a long handful of minutes to summon the willpower to get out of bed. He hadn't been lying all those months ago. Karen had a nice bed. It was soft and he was warm, the blonde head of hair spread out over his chest smelled like coconut and his sort of sleepy was the kind that only came from really good sex. Tear out his heart, rattle his brain, both hands, almost make him cry because he was so sure, really good sex.

And he was going to get up and leave in the middle of the night, hopefully without a word. Shit, he was such an asshole.

He wasted some more time berating himself that he knew deep down was simply an excuse to not get up. The screaming match down on the street ended and when he squinted at the microwave clock it showed he'd successfully wasted twenty minutes. Pushing blonde hair to the side, he started to rise. He had work to do. No more stalling.

Extracting himself from the bed without waking Karen was a challenge and he had only himself to blame for it.

Before, after her neighbor had probably heard his name through the wall a good few times and the really good sex had ended, when his breathing was still returning to normal and his heart was pounding against his ribs, he'd found himself just staring up at her ceiling. It hit him without warning and all of a sudden, he realized that he'd just had sex with a woman who wasn't his wife. That hadn't happened in over ten years, since they first got together.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. It wasn't bad, necessarily, just…different, sobering, strange maybe.

Curled up on her side right next to him, pleased smile still on her face, Karen had broken the silence, "Frank?"

When he turned his eyes to look at her and she immediately read the thoughts on his face, he wondered if she'd gotten better at it or if he just didn't keep things as close to the chest around her anymore. Which one didn't matter when she offered a second later with a faltering voice, that smile gone, "I-It's okay. I'll…I'll go..."

Her eyes moved across the space, looking at everything but him and it took him a bit to realize what she was saying. Still naked and having had him inside her just a few minutes before, she was going to get up, get out of her own bed and give him space because she thought it's what he needed, was silently asking for. The tears she was hiding and the quiver of her lip said it was the last fucking thing she wanted to do, but she would. Because she was as sure as he was.

Just how easily he could break her heart without her even complaining dropkicked him in the chest with far more potency than the realization he'd had sex with someone who wasn't Maria. That thought wasn't even that important. It was, but…

He'd just had sex with Karen. For the first time, he'd gotten to know her like that, gotten to touch her like that. He'd felt how warm she was and drowned in the coconut scent and seen her smile at him while he was inside her. He could still taste black coffee from her tongue and he already wasn't sure if his hands would ever stop missing the feel of her hair tangled up in his fingers, how her smaller fingers entwined with his as she breathed out his name. He already wanted the soft curve of her hips against his palms again. That shit was important. He didn't want space. He wanted her as close as he could get.

He hadn't let her get farther than rolling over and reaching for clothes of some kind on the floor. He wasn't going to make her take some horrible walk of shame in her own home, go hide in the bathroom or try and stand unobtrusively in the kitchen while he wrapped his head around something that was more an anecdote than an issue. He'd said he was sure and he was.

"Come here."

An arm around her waist was all it took to pull her back to him. He could see the need to ask him about it, to make sure he actually was okay on her face. Frank hadn't really been worrying about himself at that moment. Sinking his fingers back into her hair, he pulled her close and kissed her again, kissed her until the hesitance that she'd just tread on something sacred receded and she was back to smiling warmly up at him.

"I'm still sure, beautiful Karen."

She'd rolled her eyes slightly at him, fond exasperation looking back at him, before laying down her head and finally letting the afterglow's drowsiness take hold. As his caught up with him, he'd pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her and subconsciously making the vow to not let go.

If anything, they were more tangled up together after a couple hours of sleep and he honestly wasn't sure how he managed to make it to the floor, bare feet somewhat cold against the wood, without more than a sigh from her. A good five more minutes ticked by as he stared at her sprawled across the bed, eyes drawn down to where the sheet was slung low on her back.

Running a hand over his recently buzzed hair, he knelt down to start collecting his clothes. His Kevlar and coat were back at his apartment and he'd have to grab them and his rifle before going after the meth head. Those thoughts on his mind, he didn't think twice before perching himself on the kitchen stool and pulling on his boots.

Spare key securely in his pocket, one pistol in his boot and another in his current jacket, he realized his mistake as he took his third step toward the door. Across the room, Karen stirred in her sleep, frown pulling at her features as she felt around the bed for a body that wasn't there.

When she rolled over, not bothering to bring the sheet with her as she looked at him by the door, he was sorely tempted to go back to bed. But then she just smiled faintly at him in the semidarkness, "Stay safe, Frank."

The same footsteps that woke her brought him right back to her and he kissed her again. "Yes, ma'am."

He locked her door behind him, jogging down the well-known stairs without running into anyone. The prostitute who'd won the fight that had served as his alarm clock was slouching in her claimed spot. She sent a few offers at his back as he walked by, but he doubted she'd remember anything about him in an hour.

With no Bully and no real evidence that anyone properly lived there, his arsenal/apartment was quiet when he unlocked the door. He didn't stay longer than the ten minutes needed to strap on his Kevlar, shrug into his heavy coat, and check over his assault rifle. It took him a confused moment to realize that the smell of coconut wafting in the air, mixing with the gunpowder and cosmoline, was coming from him. Though he'd complained about it that first night, he wasn't so concerned with smelling like her at that moment.

Plenty of black coffee and recon over the last week let him know exactly where his target was going to be. The man, whose name was Holden Rodriguez, was in the same alley he was usually in, selling. How his brain worked well enough to do the math required when he was clearly a tweaker himself was beyond Frank, but he wasn't there to judge his habits. He was there to punish him for taking too big of a hit and beating his little girl to death with an Xbox controller and his own two hands and then bragging about it. As her only parent, he hadn't reported her missing and so her little body was still decaying in the apartment. He was either too persistently high or too much of an asshole to care about the smell, about looking at what he'd done.

Frank had gone by the place when he'd first heard the murmurs, doing his due diligence to be sure in what he did. He'd seen her there, laid on her bed with the door shut like she was a forgotten toy shoved in a closet. She'd had long dark hair and pretty brown eyes. He wouldn't have been able to tell if her eye that wasn't swollen shut hadn't still been open, staring lifelessly out at her world because her father hadn't even taken the time to close it. From what little she'd had by way of toys and decorations, she'd been going through a pony phase. She couldn't have been more than six.

No amount of time the law could take from her father, that Red's way would go for, would be enough to make it up to her.

The smell of coconut was both distracting and strangely comforting as he rested his rifle against his shoulder and turned down the alley. He was maybe fifteen feet away from Rodriguez and his two customers when they finally noticed him and froze. One of the figures breathed out with horror, "Shit."

All three promptly sprinted away from him.

Frank smirked faintly at Karen's prediction from January coming true. Him smelling like coconut did not, in fact, keep people from running from him in terror in dark alleys. The thought was only halfway finished when he put his rifle to his shoulder and shot Rodriguez, making him crash to the garbage-littered pavement.

Hands shaking violently, probably from both the pain and the drugs in his system, the man stared up at him with blood leaking from his lips and fear in his eyes when Frank roughly grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. He knelt down and leaned against his rifle, waiting for the dying man at his feet to get out the words he was clearly struggling with.

They weren't ones he was unfamiliar with when Rodriguez stuttered out, "W-W-Why? What d-did I do?"

Even bleeding out and dying, there were a lot of them that wouldn't admit to what they'd done. It made it that much easier. Pulling the pistol out of his coat, Frank weighed it in his hand for a moment. "How's your daughter, Mr. Rodriguez?"

Breathing heavily, speeding up his own death as his lungs filled up, his eyes went wide as he stared at the man looming over him. There wasn't any remorse there, just fear. "…oh."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "Oh."

Without another word, he raised the pistol and emptied a slug into Rodriguez's forehead. The man's frantic breathing and twitching hands stilled immediately, only a final muscle spasm wracking the body before it was just that: a body, a corpse. He took the piece of paper with Rodriguez's address written on it and slipped it into the man's collar. The cops would figure it out eventually, but the little girl deserved to be taken care of sooner rather than later. Pushing himself to his feet, Frank put his pistol back in its place and once again shouldered his rifle.

He had somewhere far more pleasant to be. He didn't deserve it and he knew it, but he had it and he was going to hold onto it with both hands.

All things considered, he was far less bloody than he usually would've been and he decided to skip stopping back at his apartment. Stepping into a shadow between buildings a few blocks from Rodriguez's body that the cops probably wouldn't find until the trash people came through, because people didn't really report things in Hell's Kitchen, he pulled off his coat and vest and wound them into a bundle he hid his rifle under.

He was just another face in the middle of the night as he walked back to her. At one point, he thought he saw Red perched on a rooftop, but he kept walking without going out of his way to double check. He'd finished his work for the night. Red could do his bit.

Without incident, he got into her building and made it to her door. Before he got all three locks open, he could hear Bully's nails on the floor and the beginning of the dog's happy whine. So much for leaving or coming back without waking her up.

When he got into the kitchen, he gave Bully the attention he wanted after closing the door. A glance across the room told him Karen was indeed awake. Curled up on what had become his side of the bed at some point, she had pulled on one of the big t-shirts she liked sleeping in. The expression on her face said she was clearly somewhat surprised he'd come back.

He didn't blame her for that. When he first left, he hadn't been planning on coming back. What he did out in the middle of the night and what he did with her weren't things he'd wanted to mix. And really, did he deserve to be able to come home to her when he'd been out killing someone?

The same part of him he'd thought was dead along with his family had decided it didn't care what he deserved, it cared about what he had. So there he was.

Still clearly sleepy, Karen smiled at him. Drawn like a moth to flame, he only paused to shove his bundle of armor and metal under her bed before leaning over the bed, one of his hands on either side of her head, and kissing her in greeting. He was sure the coconut scent had sunk its claws fully into him again and would cling for a while when he pulled back and went to the bathroom to wash off what blood there was.

When he was done and he'd pulled his boots and socks off and left them beside her small pile of shoes that had been condensed to make room for him, he was in a strangely good mood. Maybe it was the sex, maybe that he had somewhere and someone warm to come home to after he did what he did, maybe it was the knowledge that there was one less asshole out there to hurt little girls without remorse, and maybe it was just being close to her.

Whatever it was, he'd overthink it in the morning. The middle of the night wasn't for that kind of thinking. It was for taking the woman who somehow loved him to bed and making sure that the last thing she wanted to do was get up for work in the morning.

Shedding layers as he went back to the bed, he tugged at the collar of her pajamas with one finger after he was under the blanket beside her, "What's with this?"

"You weren't here," Karen replied with a smirk, seeing right through him. "I was cold."

His fingers found the bottom hem and started pushing upward and she let him, a smile on her face that reminded his fingers just what they were missing from earlier. "Yeah, well I'm back now."

When Karen woke up late for work that morning, before she rolled naked out of bed and started grabbing whatever clothes were closest, stubbing her toe on the butt of the assault rifle sticking out from beneath her bed, she took a long, glorious moment to bask in the feeling of waking up next to Frank Castle with his arm cinched around her waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I apologize for my lack of smut skills, lol. They're basically nonexistent, so with stuff I plan on posting, I don't even mess with it. But thanks for reading, leave a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you still enjoyed. :)


	10. October

"Hey, you the reporter, right? The one who writes about the bad shit and heroes and everything. Who almost got thrown off the roof?"

Karen looked up from the shelf of groceries before her to see the woman who'd addressed her. A quick look was all it took to tell her the Latina woman was likely a prostitute. It didn't really matter, so Karen just nodded with a small smile, "Yes, that's me. Karen Page."

She extended the hand not holding her basket to the woman and she grasped it with her dangerously long, gold-painted fingernails.

The woman looked over her shoulder once and then up the aisle before saying in a low voice, "I might know some shit for you."

Surprise wasn't really something Karen showed a whole lot of anymore when it came to sources who approached her on the street, at least outwardly. Getting tips from a hooker was a first, but certainly not the strangest thing to happen to her. She had ninja memories for that. Putting down her basket, she grabbed a small notepad out of her bag and a pen. "Okay. What do you have?"

"I have a distinct lack of customers is what I have. It's happening all over the Kitchen. Us girls on the street are losing business. I heard my guy talking about it the other day."

Something told Karen the woman's guy was actually her pimp, but she just nodded encouragingly, jotting down notes as the woman went.

"There's new people in town. Russians or Romanians or some R shit. They're bringing girls over in boats or something, setting them up in places around here for cheap. Now, I'm not doing as bad as some other girls out there, but…" Her brown eyes narrowed and her voice lowered, clearly unhappy with whatever she was about to say, "I can't compete with jailbait. That shit ain't right. A girl oughta be able to lose her virginity on her own terms before she starts having to go to work if you know what I mean."

Karen's pen paused in her fingers. So, sex trafficking. Sex trafficking of minors. Though it had yet to ever really go out, she felt the anger ignite in her chest. Finishing her thought on the paper, she nodded, "Yeah, I know what you mean. There anything else you can tell me?"

The woman shrugged, "I know the cops don't know shit. My guy heard it from a guy who sold some crack to one of the Russians or whoever they are that they're passing money off to one of the port guys to leave them alone. One of my old guys works for them now I think, pulling up 'old clientele' to take in. This isn't just a pick up somebody in your car kinda shit."

"Okay, thank you. I'll start looking at it. Just, one question. How do you know the cops aren't already working on this?"

The woman smirked darkly, "Because one of my regulars is a boy in blue and he's a talker when his pants are down. I asked him about it, about why they're not all over this shit, it being kids and all. He said they ain't heard nothing and that if anybody like me comes in talking about it, it'll go straight into the trash. Girls like me ain't credible sources apparently. But your kind probably will be."

Without another word, the woman turned and walked back out the door. Brain already whirring to life, planning calls to make and records to search, Karen tucked her notebook away. It could be a false trail, a bad tip, but she'd see it through regardless. Distractedly grabbing the remaining items on her grocery list, she was back on the street and hurrying at a walk that was closer to a jog all the way back to her apartment.

When Frank knocked on her door a few hours later, using his key once she called for him just to come in, she already had the coffee table filled with notes and she needed to plug her new laptop in so it wouldn't die. The fresh pot of coffee she'd started before she sat down was half gone.

Bully trotted over and immediately flopped in her lap, pouting slightly when he got only one-handed belly rubs. She felt Frank sink down onto the couch beside her after pulling his boots off. Gazing at her notes and what was on her screen for a moment, he asked, "New story."

"I think so. I got a tip from a hooker."

She smiled at how quickly his eyebrow shot up. Leaning a little more heavily against her, chin on her shoulder, he took a second look at the harbor records she had pulled up on the laptop.

"She changing professions and becoming a sailor?" At her flat stare, eyebrow of her own raised, he amended, "What's she know about that she thought Karen Page needed to be in on?"

"Sex trafficking. Apparently somebody is bringing girls in on ships and taking away from her business."

"Girls?" His tone was clearly asking if there was an age-related reason she'd chosen that word. She nodded. There was always the chance that the woman's source could be wrong on that account, plenty were, but Karen was going to assume the worst until something proved it better.

Pulling back, he pressed a kiss to the side of her head, "Stay safe, beautiful Karen."

"Yes, sir."

She'd never said that to him before, but the smile that pulled across his face made her wish she had. And, as he pulled her closer and gave her a proper kiss of greeting, she was grateful for a countless time that Frank didn't try to talk her out of it, keep her at home, keep her locked away somewhere, safe but useless. She wasn't sure if he saw it as a fair trade ‒ if he could go out at night and punish criminals without her throwing a fit, then she could pursue her usually dangerous stories without him getting upset ‒ if he simply respected her choices like that, or what precisely went through his head, but she really kinda loved him for it.

Two days later, legs asleep and pistol clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingers were starting to cramp, Frank's words were on her mind. 'Stay safe, beautiful Karen' had become her mantra as she kept herself completely still, refused to let her breathing give her away.

She'd found the port authority man being bribed. She'd followed him to work in his brand new Escalade that he shouldn't have been able to afford. She'd walked a ways behind him to his office and waited outside under the guise of a woman taking surveys. And then, at almost five o'clock when the rest of the office was emptying of people, she'd silently followed him to the dock that was supposed to be under maintenance but had a boat moored beside it.

And that was how she'd found herself breaking into the small portside office after he'd left and looking at a ledger full of names, ages, weights, and pictures of naked teenage girls drugged out of their minds.

After swallowing down the urge to vomit, she'd immediately started taking pictures, noting the page the book had been opened to and documenting everything within reach. Most of it was in Cyrillic and therefore beyond her comprehension, but she committed the few names she could make out to memory.

She was hardly halfway through the book, hating deep down inside her that given she was illegally there nothing she had could be taken to the police, when she heard the engine outside. Freezing, she glanced over her shoulder to just make out the two figures climbing out of an SUV and coming toward the door.

Panic pounding in her chest, she flipped the book back to its previous page and crawled in the nearest hiding place: beneath the large metal desk. Tripping over the computer cords under her heels and only just getting into a position she could hold as the door opened, she internally rolled her eyes at her life. First vigilantes, then ninjas, and now she was huddled beneath a desk like she was in a James Bond movie. Her life was ridiculous in the most spectacular of fashions.

She wondered if Ben had ever gotten stuck under a desk. Somehow she doubted it.

The two men who entered were speaking a language she didn't recognize. The hooker's guess that it was Russian or Romanian seemed plausible, though, as they laughed about something. She couldn't see anything but their legs from the knees down until one of them pulled out the chair and flopped into it. His spread knees were mere inches from her face when he finally got himself settled, the computer's fan above her kicking on. Only an awkwardly placed metal bar kept his feet from being able to slide forward and nudge into her.

The pistol on his hip sat and stared at her, letting her know how much shit she was in if they realized she was there.

The keyboard clicking beneath his fingers and the mouse sliding across the metal surface were loud in her ears as she crouched awkwardly in the tiny space. As quietly as she could manage, she eased her pistol out of her bag…just in case. With a simple squeeze of her twitching index finger—it was a nervous habit she'd recently acquired from Frank—she could relieve the man in the chair of both his balls and his life.

But then what? She was stuck beneath a desk and she'd have to shove the guy out of the way. If she'd learned anything about organized criminals in the last year, it was that they tended to shoot back without hesitation.

'Stay safe, beautiful Karen.'

A loud ding rang through the space and she jumped so violently she nearly smacked into the man's knees. Biting her newly trembling lip, she kept herself from letting out a breath of relief as the man across the room checked his phone. She silenced hers as quickly as she could, berating herself for not having done it to begin with. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she remembered she was supposed to meet Foggy for dinner and drinks that night. Foggy wasn't the type not to call and check on her when she didn't show. He wasn't even the type to not show up at her door. She tucked her phone into the waistband of her skirt so the light of the screen wouldn't give her away when he got to her apartment and found out Frank didn't know where she was either.

'Stay safe, beautiful Karen.'

Taking as quiet of a steadying breath as she could, she settled in to wait with pistol in hand. She wasn't dying. Not tonight.

The daylight coming through the window had completely shifted to streetlight when the man above her—Dmitry, she'd learned—finally pushed the chair back. His fingers stopped pressing the keys and the computer fan slowed to a halt.

After however many hours of listening to the language she didn't understand, doing her best to ignore her body screaming at her, the movement didn't immediately register to Karen. Her brain just continued playing through the happy thoughts she'd dredged up to cling to. Drunk Foggy and the beginning of 'beautiful Karen' was in there. Bully eating peanut butter and the wonderful rush of energy when her first coffee of the day kicked in. Gingersnaps when she was a kid. Friday nights at Josie's with Matt and Foggy. Waking up next to Frank in the morning. Stay safe, beautiful Karen and the memory of Frank singing to Led Zeppelin on the radio the week before were ringing in her ears. She'd never really paid much attention to the band until it was from his mouth and _Whole Lotta Love_ had instantly become her new favorite song.

It wasn't until the light was out and the two men had locked the door behind them that her body finally caught up.

Not letting up her grip on her pistol at all, she shifted onto her numb legs and slowly crawled out from under the desk, looking warily into the darkness. Headlights shone through the window and she watched as the car pulled away.

The stumbling walk through the port was painful and took her far longer than she would've liked. Somehow everything from the waist down was both numb beyond feeling and burning with pain, her knees crunching with every step. The search for a cab once she managed to get out without being noticed, asked why she was there, was worse. It was easily ten blocks before she found one. She let out something close to a sob when she climbed out of the yellow car and looked up at the familiar brick building. Her finger was still twitching against her gun inside her bag when she got her key into the door of her apartment building.

She could hear the voices through her door when she got to the top of the stairs. Pulling her phone from where she'd hid it five hours before, she saw twelve missed calls from Foggy. Sighing, she leaned against the door casing and knocked. Doing so much as opening all three locks just felt like too much in that moment.

"Frank, it's me."

The voices immediately paused and she could hear Bully's happy whining in the silence that followed.

She managed a smile when the locks clicked and the door opened, revealing his worried face and an enthusiastic pit bull. "Hi."

His eyes scanned her from head to toe and then back up, looking for injuries, before Frank replied with a gentle smile of his own, "You're late, beautiful Karen."

Letting out a groan that came all the way from her dying toes, she reached forward and wrapped both arms around his neck. They stood there in the doorway for a minute, her just clinging to him on her faltering legs, until he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet.

Shutting the door behind them, he set her down on the kitchen stool, not really retracting his arm even as she kicked off her heels and let her bag drop to the floor.

From near the couch, Foggy noted with laughter in his voice that was clearly trying to disguise worry, "Well, I'd thought you'd just found a hotter date than me, but I'm starting to feel like that's not what happened…"

When she just smiled faintly in his direction, loudly cracking her stiff fingers, he pressed, "Where were you, Karen?"

"Hiding under a desk from probably Russian sex traffickers…for five hours."

He blinked at her slowly a few times, taking that answer in, probably questioning her sanity a bit. Sinking down onto the arm of her couch, he shook his head and peeked a grin up at her, "I can't believe I got stood up for that."

Frank's fingers threading through her hair and Foggy smiling at her, knowing she needed a friend in that moment more than he needed answers to his questions, she couldn't keep a relieved laugh from bursting out of her throat.

"I didn't stand you up, Foggy. I'm just…really late."

The man shrugged, "Okay. I'm a lawyer. I'm willing to buy that. I'm hungry. How about you, beautiful Karen?"

Pushing down the pain in her legs and the horrible things that were sitting on her phone, evidence of just how terrible human beings could be to one another, she smiled, "Starving."

It also suddenly occurred to her that she really, really needed to pee.

Foggy slipped back down to the floor and grabbed his coat off the back of the couch, smirking comfortingly up at her again. "I think I can manage picking up something. There anything you don't eat, Tall, Dark, and Terrifying?"

She giggled slightly at Frank's new name and the way he raised his eyebrows at it. Foggy just stared guilelessly back at him, his perfected, innocent lawyer's gaze in his eyes. Finally, Frank shook his head and replied with a small smirk, "Nope. I eat anything."

Just as Foggy was pulling the door closed, she called after him, "If you get Mexican, just get him tacos."

"What other Mexican is there?" Foggy asked, looking over his shoulder in confusion. She rolled her eyes.

When Foggy was gone, Frank nodded, kissing the side of her head and murmuring, "I know I've said this before, but I like him."

She laughed lightly before pushing herself to her feet and immediately wincing as her knees cracked. Letting her hair pull away from his fingers, he didn't say anything more as she stiffly walked to the bathroom. When she turned the faucet on to wash her hands, he appeared in the doorway with her favorite pajama shirt—which happened to be one of his he was never getting back—and the leggings she slept in. She could've sobbed in gratitude.

Grabbing the front of his shirt, she pulled him to her and properly kissed him for the first time since she'd gotten back, holding on until his tongue was moving against hers and his fingers had retaken their place in her hair. She loved how he did that, held her to him, cradled the back of her head like she was something precious. It was one of the girliest ideas she'd ever gotten into her head, but it either made her heart speed up to excited or calm back down from panicked every time he did it.

His forehead was resting against hers when he asked in a whisper, "You found something?"

Thinking back to the pictures, she nodded shakily. "Oh yeah."

"Bad?"

Taking the clothes from his hand, she pointed to her phone in answer. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he stepped over to it and unlocked it as she slipped out of her work clothes and into her pajamas. She could see the exact moment he got to her pictures. Essentially, Frank Castle was the Punisher and the Punisher was Frank Castle. Even if Frank ever quit being the Punisher, she doubted anything about how he thought, his outlook on the world, would change. He'd still see what he'd done as necessary. They were the same man, just different versions of him when in certain situations, but she knew the look he got in his eyes when he wanted to take his rifle and use it on someone terrible.

Voice still shakier than she'd like, she said when she was completely changed and he was still flipping through what she'd found, "I'm going to find them and I'm going to stop them."

She wasn't entirely sure if she was saying it to further convince herself or to tell him that she was going to punish them in her own way, but he looked up at her words. He didn't have any looks anymore that she didn't understand and she knew the one staring back at her. He believed her. It didn't matter that she was just a blonde journalist, a woman who was about the exact opposite of intimidating, not someone to be feared, and whatever else made people look at her and dismiss her. That wasn't what he saw and so when she said she was going to take down a group of sex traffickers making life absolute hell for a bunch of teenage girls, he believed her.

"Never doubted you for a second, ma'am." She smiled at that and was about to speak when he added, "Not so sure about your shoes, though. How did five hours under a desk in those treat you?"

Karen rolled her eyes, "You hush, Marine."

He'd just reached out to grab her hip and pull her to him when Foggy knocked loudly on the door, "I am announcing myself so I do not see anything that might blind me. I would not be as self-sufficient as Matt."

Laughing as Frank huffed slightly in annoyance, she went and opened the door.

Her apartment wasn't really set up to allow for three people to sit and eat comfortably, but after pushing the couch back, the Chinese take-out was spread out on the coffee table and they each had spots on the floor. Karen was technically in Frank's lap, but Foggy still called it being authentic.

"So," Foggy began as he handed out chopsticks and passed around the beer he'd also brought, "sex traffickers. I probably don't want to know before I eat, right?"

Expertly popping the top off the bottle, Karen shook her head after taking a long swig and a shudder, "You _really_ don't."

"Well, if you need any expert legal opinion," with a smile, he gestured to himself with both hands, beer in one and chopsticks in the other. She laughed just as he'd intended, Frank smirking with his arm around her waist, and all things considered, she couldn't think of a better way the overall terrible day could've ended.

Then Foggy pulled out a final carton out of the large paper sack. "And these are for you, beautiful Karen."

She peeked inside and her smile widened, "Foggy! You got me the sugar donut dumpling things! I could kiss you."

Mouth half-full of fried rice, he vehemently shook his head. "No! No. Don't say those things. Remember in the hospital when you said I wasn't supposed to mention you to Marci because you were injured and not fully capable of defending yourself? Well, I'm at 100% right now and there's no way in hell I'm picking a fight with your boyfriend. And I'm only slightly too proud to tap Matt in for me."

She laughed against the couple of dumplings she'd already shoved into her mouth. Smirk clear in his voice, Frank repeated from over her shoulder, "I like him. Nelson, I like you."

Foggy didn't look completely sure how he felt about that, but he merely shrugged after spooning some sesame chicken onto his plate, "Now I just have to win the dog over."

As if summoned, Bully trotted over and started begging for food.

* * *

Karen jolted awake to the sound of seven gunshots and the picture of James Wesley's dying face behind her eyes late that night. She could feel the phantom pain of the recoil in her wrists and the metallic tang of blood that wasn't real filled her nose.

Breathing heavily, she ran a shaking hand through her hair before reaching the other out to turn on her lamp. Though it didn't work and she knew it wouldn't, she put a hand over her mouth to try and smother her sobs.

A heavy, impossibly warm arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her onto her side. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

She sobbed harder at feeling Frank's voice through her bare back but she clung to his arm, hugging it to her chest as he pressed a kiss to the side of her head. His knuckles were a bit ragged, scabs covering the skin, but the rough texture was strangely comforting. She'd never held his hand when his knuckles had been unharmed. It was a part of him and at the moment he was holding her together.

"You're okay."

She'd never had nightmares before she'd told him about Wesley. She'd think about what she'd done late at night, drink more whisky than was healthy and be bleary-eyed the next morning, but she'd never once dreamed about those five minutes, about her dark and terrible. Now he, Connor O'Brien, and the man whose name she'd never cared to learn haunted her sleep at least once a week, oftentimes twice. The day she'd had without a doubt had something to do with them showing up tonight, but it was by no means her first rodeo.

She hated it. With everything she had, she hated it. Just as she'd stepped away from hating herself quite so much, something new had to pop up and shove it back in her face. Frank had said with a shrug and kiss to her forehead after he witnessed one for the first time that she'd had it buried for a long time. She hadn't let it get out. The parts of her that didn't listen to reason were flushing out the bad feelings they'd been forced to live with for over a year the only way they could once she got it out, let the secret go.

She just had to let her psyche bleed all the bad out, like lancing a boil. The description had been disgusting but apt.

Wishing she could just curl up and disappear into his chest, she rolled over and pressed her face into him when he continued whispering, "Shh, you're okay."

Her breathing wavered slowly back to normal, helped by his fingers running up and down her back. When she could tell the worst of it had passed, she let out a deep groan. He wrapped his other arm around her and kissed the top of her head, "I know it's shit. I'm sorry."

"I want it to go away," she moaned, allowing herself to wallow just a bit. "Frank, when will it go away?"

Not stilling his fingers, he shrugged and she knew that he was going to let her have her moment of misery, "When you're ready."

"I'm ready. I promise I'm ready."

Letting out a deep breath, she let go of her irritation as best she could. She could be angry at her subconscious for needing more time to process all she wanted. That wasn't going to make it heal any faster. She just had to fight her way through it. Being skin against skin with Frank afterward, soaking in all his warmth and concern, feeling so undeniably safe, all that sure as hell helped. She was so absurdly grateful that he basically lived with her now.

She knew that sometimes he wasn't sure how to handle it, doing all of it again, sort of dating and her giving him a drawer and waking up next to her. He had trouble reconciling the man that the death of his family had created and the one who held her and quieted her as she sobbed because he loved her. She hadn't quite figured out how to tell him that they were the same one, he'd just been complicated, complex, he'd evolved as he went. But she never saw any of those thoughts bothering him when she needed him to hold her together and she was grateful for that.

He chuckled gently and she smiled at the feel of it, running her fingers across his stomach because she just liked physically knowing he was there. "Apparently you're not, sweetheart."

Pulling the blanket he usually stole the majority of up over her chest, she looked up at him from where she was resting on his arm. She had no idea how it didn't go to sleep with how often she woke up lying on it, but he hadn't complained. After that awkward little stumbling their first night when she thought he'd wanted distance and she'd been wonderfully wrong, he'd done nothing but reach out and pull her closer.

Out of genuine curiosity a few moments later, she asked with a slight frown, "Why do you think it doesn't bother you? I know it's kind of different, but…"

"I'm a soldier. Killing is what we do and I'm good at it. Always was." He shifted until they were eyelevel, his bruised nose almost touching hers. Fingers absently running through her hair, he continued, "They can say whatever the fuck they want in the recruitment ads about protecting and helping and whatever else, but when it gets down to it, soldiers are there to kill people. I was a sniper. Putting bullets in people was literally my whole job."

"Does it feel different now?"

Karen never really asked him about it and never when it wasn't in the middle of the night and the reality of his self-imposed job felt far away, but he always answered when she did. She wondered if he didn't like explaining himself sometimes, talking about it to someone he knew wasn't going to run away. Floating in the grey, she had yet to stamp out how she felt about it into words, something with labels and black and white. If she'd realized anything, it was that she didn't need it set down like that to love him.

The feel of his voice through her chest brought her out of her thoughts. "Yeah, I don't wonder why about the ones now."

A small laugh broke out of her at that, because it was just such a Frank thing to say, so matter-of-fact and practical. He quirked a smile back at her and the darkest bits of the conversation were over.

Rolling onto his back, still playing with her hair, he said with a smile a moment later, "Once Lisa was in charge of the classroom goldfish for the weekend and the thing died Saturday night while she was asleep. She ran down the stairs the next morning to feed it and the damn thing was just floating belly up. She cried every time she saw a goldfish for the next six months. She wouldn't even eat fish sticks…and she'd lived off fish sticks. Frank Jr. was all about hot dogs and chicken nuggets, but with her it was fish sticks."

She smiled as she slid an arm over his chest. It was so different, to hear him tell her stories about his family not just because he was sad or missing them, but because he wanted to share them with her. "I'll bet school lunches during Lent were fun."

"Shit, she used it as the perfect opportunity to get Lunchables every Friday for over a month."

She gasped and pushed herself up to look at him better, "The pizza kind? The pizza kind are the best."

Shaking his head slightly, Frank just grinned up at the ceiling, "Why do you know that?"

"Because at Union Allied, Lunchables were my Friday lunch treat. After a long week of being called Kathy and told to get coffee, I deserved that juice pouch."

For a long moment he just stared at her, smirk on his face and hand tangled up in her hair. She'd gotten so used to not understanding what was staring back at her and she'd liked it anyway, looking forward to the zing it sent to her toes and having the moment to just stare back. She couldn't even describe how infinitely better it was now that she knew what it meant. From the first moment she'd mentioned his family in that hospital room on the wrong side of the red tape, she could feel deep in her stomach just how much he loved them. It did something to her when she felt the same thing but about her, something wonderful and terrifying and…irrevocable.

He squeezed her to him and whispered when her face was close, "You're fucking adorable."

Smiling, she leaned down to kiss him. Just as he'd wrapped his arms around her waist and she could taste the black coffee and toothpaste on his tongue, a loud clatter came from the other end of the apartment.

Looking particularly pleased with himself, Bully panted at them beside his overturned water bowl.

Karen snapped her eyes back to his and immediately said, "He's your dog."

"Not tonight, he's not," he laughed, shoving her toward the edge of the bed. She tried to shove back but he was too heavy. As she opened her mouth to argue, he added, "I lived through two infants and about eighteen total months of sleep deprivation. You're not winning this one, sweetheart."

"Fine," she huffed, gently smacking his side before slipping out of bed. Halfway to the kitchen, she threw over her shoulder, "Stop staring at my ass."

"Not a chance, ma'am."

Yawning, she was refilling the bowl after rubbing Bully's head when Frank's warmth appeared beside her and grabbed the paper towels to start mopping up the spilled water. She smiled before wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :)


	11. November

"Hey, I'm heading out."

With a small snort, Karen jerked awake and blinked against the light from her computer screen. Rubbing her eyes with one hand and feeling around for her cup of coffee with the other, she asked blearily, "What time is it?"

She could hear the smirk in Frank's voice even if she couldn't see it yet. "Almost two-thirty. You work too hard, beautiful Karen."

"Says the world's most terrifying hypocrite."

Letting the bitterness of her cold coffee snap her eyes open, she finally took a good look at him. He was dressed for work, boots laced, a gun tucked in his right, another sitting in the belt of his pants. His heavy Punisher coat, body armor, and assault rifle were in the bag slung over his shoulder. She made a final note of his current bruises so she'd know exactly which ones were new when he came home again.

Laughing again at her sleepy state, he kissed the side of her head and turned to the door.

She pushed Bully out of her lap and went after him, tripping slightly over the couch, "Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing? You don't get to leave like that just because I'm half asleep."

She gave him a quick but heavy kiss before he could say anything back. Smiling faintly, their noses touching, she whispered, "Stay safe, Frank."

"Yes, ma'am." He pressed another kiss to her lips before opening the door. "I should be back tomorrow night."

Watching him descend the stairs until he was out of sight, she locked the door and went back to her article on the corruption families applying for low-income housing had been facing in recent months. It wasn't the most dangerous story she'd ever done, but after her last one, Ellison had demanded she stay a little bit under the radar for a while. No more uncovering sex trafficking rings almost singlehandedly, stealing six drugged, exploited girls in the middle of the night in a cab, and taking them to the police station to give statements. Her possession of a firearm that was used to shoot at the sex traffickers coming after them was unconfirmed. The cops had missed the opportunity to arrest about half of the men involved, citing lack of evidence, but the editor had still called it a win. Almost three dozen girls being freed from virtual enslavement and given a second chance was what Karen considered a victory, but she wasn't crazy about being told to cool things down. Systemic corruption was as 'low profile' as she was willing to go.

Bully returned to his spot snoring in her lap. Whenever she heard gunfire in the distance, one of the normal night sounds of Hell's Kitchen, she looked toward the window and felt worry grip her chest but then went back to her work and her coffee.

If she weren't so stupidly content with what she and Frank had, she might've actually listened to the cynic in her that cackled at how pathetic she was, needing someone else so much, letting him have so much power over her happiness. But she was. Both hands hanging on, she was happy.

* * *

Three days later—three _horrible_ days later—she had maybe twelve hours of sleep under her belt and Karen knew she looked like absolute shit as she raised her hand to knock on the door in front of her. It was going on eleven, maybe even midnight since she'd left her apartment with Bully's leash in one hand, her bag with pistol in the other, and stumbled her way to the building she hadn't been to in months.

Frank wasn't back. Knowing that filing a missing persons wasn't really in the realm of possibility, she'd given him as much time and benefit of the doubt as her conscience and blood pressure could take.

A couple steps beyond desperate, she pounded on the door before her and called, "Matt! Shit, Matt, please be home."

She let out a relieved sob when she heard footsteps approaching on the other side. Clearly not having left for the night yet, her friend appeared when he pulled open the door and frowned at her. "Karen, what are you doing here? What…What's wrong? And why do you still have a dog?"

Not waiting for him to invite her in, she stepped past him and leaned against the wall beside his door, "Frank's gone."

He stiffened slightly and she knew what he was going to ask before he said it.

In the last months, he'd…come to tolerate her relationship with Frank. At heart, she thought it was just hard for him to know that the man who had the opposite philosophy was so close by, especially when Matt was so viciously questioning every move he himself ever made. Having the proof of the existence and efficacy of the other way was hard to have around at all, let alone dating the woman he'd dated and then let go. So even though he'd made the decision to keep being her friend, it wasn't what it had once been.

It wasn't a tradeoff she would've asked for, but she loved Frank. She'd take keeping him over making up the distance with Matt.

Foggy was different. He was still scared to death of Frank, but he put that away for her sake. He treated her man much like he treated her pit bull: with friendliness and a great big side of caution to make sure he didn't get eaten. Frank found it funny, but he really did like the guy.

The sleep deprivation was starting to tug her thoughts on tangents she couldn't afford.

"Before you even ask, no, he didn't _leave_. He wouldn't just _leave_."

Without his glasses, Matt blinked at the ferocity in her voice but nodded, "Okay. What do you want me to do?"

Running a hand through her hair, she sank down to his floor with a sob, "I want you to find him, Matt. Please. Please, help… Help me."

She was a mess, a horrible sobbing mess and she hated herself a little bit for it. Her lack of sleep hadn't let her put it away, though.

"Alright." Maneuvering around Bully with none of the hesitance she knew he feigned in public, he grabbed a box of tissues off his counter and brought them back to her. "Alright. I'll help. Just…what can you tell me? Who was he going after? When did he leave? When did he think he'd come back."

When it came to those facts, it didn't matter how little sleep she had. They were like the rank and serial number prisoners-of-war gave. They were burned into her memory. "I don't know. He never mentions it. I just hear about it at work the next day. He left at two-thirty in the morning three days ago. He said he'd be back the night after. But he's not back yet, Matt. Oh my god, he's not back. He died once. I can't... I…"

Her hands were shaking violently where she was petting Bully, the poor dog probably dizzy because of it.

She could tell that dealing with Frank Castle's hysterical girlfriend hadn't been something Matt planned on doing that night, even if that girlfriend was her, but she also knew he wouldn't turn her away. He was too good of a person for that. It didn't matter how exactly he felt about Frank, she was his friend and he still cared.

Kneeling down, he awkwardly hugged her until she got her breathing under control again and she clung to the touch like she was drowning. "It's alright. I'm going to do everything I can, Karen. I'll find him…one way or another, I'll find him."

"I know." She let out another deep breath and nodded, "Thank you, Matt."

He smiled faintly, "You're my friend, Karen. You don't need to thank me. Come on."

He gently ushered her further into his apartment and got her settled on the couch. Trying to remember what it felt like to not have her constricting chest crushing all the air out of her lungs, she vaguely listened as he grabbed his cell phone and told it to call Foggy.

_"Matt, what…It's like midnight."_

"And you haven't gone to bed before then on a Thursday in ten years. Foggy, I need your help."

_"I didn't exactly say I was asleep, Matt."_

Under different circumstances she might've laughed at Foggy's tone and Matt's involuntary noise of irritation. "Hi, Marci."

The woman's voice was clearly annoyed when she greeted in return, " _Murdock._ "

"But seriously, Foggy, I need you to come over. Please."

The silence that followed was filled with their friend weighing his options on how to discreetly ask what was going on. _"Does this have to do with the pro bono work you were doing when we last talked?"_

Marci snorted in the background, _"How does he have the income to do pro bono?"_

"Yes. It…There are some things from the Castle case I could use for reference. You did more on that case than I did."

_"I'll be right over."_

_"But Foggy!"_ Whatever else Marci had to say was cut off when he hung up the phone.

Again, Karen might've laughed at Foggy's looming fight if Frank wasn't possibly out dead somewhere. She had no idea how Maria Castle had done it, survived with her sanity intact as her husband went off to a warzone for months at a time where him dying was a distinct possibility. She had absolutely no fucking clue.

She'd thought that because she'd done this once before, it would somehow be…more known if something ever happened to him again. Not necessarily easier, but not quite so crippling. She'd stood by a dock and listened to them say he was dead. She remembered the feeling. She remembered it when he went to 'work,' strapped the skull to his chest and pulled on his coat like it was another layer of armor. That feeling she remembered…it was absolutely fucking _nothing_ compared to the scratching, screaming terror beating on her heart with a stick that hadn't let up in the last twenty-four hours.

Coming back over and placing his hands on her shoulders, Matt tried to calm her once more. He must've heard her heartrate jump up or something equally impossible that he did every day. "Foggy's coming over to wait with you. I don't want you to have to be here alone. I promise I'll do everything and look everywhere I can. Okay?"

She didn't trust herself to speak so she just pursed her lips together and nodded, confident he could figure out what she was doing.

"Okay."

Within fifteen minutes, he emerged from his bedroom in the red suit she'd seen up close more times than probably anyone other than criminals had. Mask under his arm, he gave her another quick hug before disappearing out his window and heading for the roof. Hastily dressed and panting slightly, Foggy arrived maybe ten minutes after that.

A smile finally got through when she saw the lipstick stain on his neck after he pulled her into a hug, saying in his strangely calming way that everything was going to be okay. Because it was Foggy, her smile managed to grow slightly when he looked down at the dog at his feet and nodded, "Oh…Bully's here, too…yay. We'll have to play or something…"

Letting out a deep breath—like those actually worked—she stepped over to her purse. Digging blearily through it, she dropped her keys and phone and a used coffee cup and her pistol onto Matt's table. Foggy flinched away from the gun at first, but managed to shrug, "You really are the Punisher's girlfriend."

"I had one before. I've had one since Fisk. Me having a gun wasn't Frank," Finally finding what she was looking for, she pulled a tennis ball out and tossed it to him. Bully immediately went onto his hind legs, panting in anticipation of his ball being thrown. "He tried to chew through the door when I was at work yesterday. I had to take him with me to interview people today. He misses Frank. He knows something is wrong."

Gently throwing the ball for the dog, he stepped forward again and pulled her into a hug. She could feel him open his mouth, probably to reassure her that Frank was fine and Matt would find him and everything would be okay. He closed it again before any words came out and hugged her a little tighter instead.

"When's the last time you got any sleep? You look like shit." When she laughed weakly, he shrugged, "Hey, your boyfriend's not here, I'm always incredibly honest about such things, and Marci has trained me to not be afraid to say those things to women who aren't her. I mean it lovingly."

Rubbing a hand down her face, she tried to remember, "Yesterday night maybe."

Foggy nodded, "Yeah, that's not actually a phrase and I'm going to take it to mean too damn long ago. Is your heart pumping blood or coffee at this point?"

She made some sort of noise but she wasn't sure if it sounded more positive or negative as he threw the ball once again and directed her to the couch. "Lie down, _try_ to maybe get some sleep, be more up and running when Matt comes back. Short of calling the cops, you've done everything you can."

Her addled brain wasn't sure why but the words made her start to cry. Sighing, Foggy squeezed her shoulder, "Yeah, being on the outside of this whole vigilante thing really is shit. I hear you."

Still hearing the sound of Foggy throwing the tennis ball and Bull scurrying after it, his nails clicking on the wood floor, she wasn't sure that what she did was actually sleep. It was more that her body refused to keep functioning when it had a perfectly good couch beneath it. It demanded rest even if her brain, her heart, couldn't quite stop hyperventilating.

Bully's tail was thwacking against something as he wagged it and Foggy was talking to him when her body returned to her. Maybe it was the sky lightening slightly through the buildings to the east and maybe something in her just knew that she needed to be awake, but within seconds they both heard a pounding on the door.

Yelling at a whisper, Matt panted, "Foggy! Foggy, help. Open the door!"

"Shit." He scrambled to his feet and had the door open before she got herself completely upright, pushing a hand back through her hair. All the tears and crippling terror was out of her when she saw the unconscious body draped across Matt's shoulders, a good bit of the red on his outfit having been added to. Tears gone, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail with shaking hands and stood.

The last time she'd sewn Frank back together, he'd been awake and there to keep her steady. She didn't know if whatever was wrong with him was something that could be sewn or butterfly bandaged or anything in the realm of what she could do, but he wasn't awake to help her. She was going to have to keep herself steady.

Kicking the door closed, Foggy asked the questions she wanted to as he took Frank's other arm and pulled it over his shoulders so he and Matt could share the weight, "What do you think happened? Where'd you find him?"

"I'm not sure," Matt panted. "I think whoever it was drugged him or something. There was a needle broken off in the side of his neck. It smells like some sort of drugs. I'm not sure which. He must've killed whoever it was, though, because he was in a ratty apartment that smelled like him, was filled with guns and bullets and everything. I think he just got back there before the drugs kicked in."

Shedding her coat because she hadn't even thought to earlier, Karen ordered, "Get him to the bathroom. We can put his bloody clothes in the bottom of the shower and get a look."

They both paused and looked at her—or Foggy looked at her with slightly widened eyes and Matt tilted his head in her direction. The former noted slowly, "Why do I feel like you've done this before?"

"Because I have. The Punisher's girlfriend, remember. Frank's not very good at staying out of trouble." She tried to smile faintly but it failed and her strength wavered until she got a hold on it again. Both hands. Hold on with both hands. Wiping away the tears with the back of her hand, she urged, "Come on."

Looking down at his bloody hands and the new stains on his shirt, Foggy was visibly wavering when he and Matt got the man laid down on the bathroom floor. She said without looking back, "Foggy, keep Bully out of here. He likes trying to jump up on the toilet."

"No problem. Come here, dog terror of New York."

Matt pulled his mask and gloves off and let them fall to the floor before he knelt down beside her. If he had anything to say about the change in her behavior, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he just said as she started peeling Frank out of his coat and Kevlar, "His heartbeat is strong, slow from the drugs I think, but strong. He's got some cracked ribs and he took a hit to the head. From the way his cuts are, I'd say it's been twelve, maybe eighteen hours since he got them."

She nodded shakily as she dug the first aid kit from the left inside pocket of his coat where it lived. Starting on his Kevlar, she asked in an effort to distract herself, "H-How can you tell all that?"

"Old blood smells different than new. His injured ribs creak faintly as he breathes. There's a louder pulse in his head where he got hit."

"I-Is there anything from the waist down? There's so much blood, I can't tell what's coming from him."

He paused for a moment, tilting his head in the way he had. "His left thigh. There's a cut, deep but I think it's clean."

Lips pressed together, holding back the vomit she could feel starting to roil in her stomach, she grabbed the knife Frank kept on his hip and began cutting away his shirt.

"Karen, we need help. I don't…I don't know how to deal with head wounds, especially since he's already taken a shot to the head before. Neither do you."

"Well, do you have a better fucking idea, have some vigilante surgeon on speed dial?" She was snapping and she knew it.

Sighing, she was about to apologize before Matt replied with a soft voice, "Well, I don't exactly have Foggy patch me up when I come home bloody."

"You're welcome!" Foggy called from the kitchen, searching through the fridge for anything that looked safe for dogs to eat.

She looked between the two with confusion until Matt added, "Her name is Claire. She's a nurse who's helped me before. I don't know how she feels about Frank, but she'll help. I promise he'll be in good hands, Karen."

He was speaking to her like he was reassuring a child and for a moment she wanted to snap again, tell him she wasn't a fucking kid, she'd known what she was getting into being Frank's friend and then his…more. Then she looked down at her fingers, still trembling where they held the first aid kit in one hand and his bruised, bloody face in the other. She heard the sobs coming from her throat right after and realized that maybe his words were exactly what she needed to hear.

"Okay. I-If she'll come, then okay. I'll just stitch him up until she gets here. I can do that."

Squeezing her shoulder, he nodded, "Okay, I'll get you some water to wash out the cuts."

Wiping at her nose, she added to his retreating back, "And a towel you won't mind burning, please."

Matt's bathroom was thankfully much bigger than hers and she only had to do minimal crawling and climbing to successfully get Frank's boots and pants pulled off. Looking at the oozing gash right below the bloody hem of his boxers tipped her stomach over the edge. Holding her breath until she was to the toilet, she let go of what food she'd remembered to eat and the coffee that had been keeping her alive.

That over, she let out a long breath and reached into the kit for gloves. Getting them on and ripping open the packet of antiseptic wipes, she whispered to the unconscious man on the floor, "You're going to be the death of me, Frank Castle, but not tonight. You hear me, Marine, not tonight."

Matt returned with a towel and water, kneeling down where there was room and saying, "Claire's on her way."

She just nodded to that. Without another word between them, she settled in to first clean then either stitch or use the medical superglue in the kit to stick him closed again. She wasn't sure what Matt was searching for as he stayed, handing her things and holding the towel where she directed his hand, but it was the most comfortable around him she'd felt since before that night on the roof, in the hospital. She knew he still didn't really understand, without knowing about Wesley he couldn't, but he could see how she felt about the man bleeding on his bathroom floor.

And apparently that was enough to still his concern for the moment.

The sleep deprivation was pulling at her vision when a knock came from the door followed by a tired voice when it opened, "I just got off of a twenty-four hour shift and my pillow was looking real sexy when I picked up that phone, Matt."

Karen didn't look up when Matt disappeared from the doorway, just kept wiping the blood off of Frank's chest and face.

"I know, Claire, and thank you for coming anyway."

"This isn't really like you," the woman noted, a dry sort of amusement in her voice, "asking for help."

"It's not for me."

She sighed, "Of course it's not. Hey, Foggy."

"Always a pleasure, Claire." There was a heavy hint of irony in his tone and the woman laughed slightly because of it.

"Okay, so who can't go to the hospital now…oh." Karen looked up at the darker-skinned woman in the doorway and easily recognized the resigned exhaustion on her face. Putting the bag on her shoulder down, Claire shook her head, "I _really_ just need to go into business for this, start charging for how many hours before dawn it is. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the Punisher, Luke, Jessica, my list just keeps growing…"

Kneeling down, she held out her hand to Karen, "Claire Temple."

Shakily pulling off a glove, she grasped it and returned, "Karen Page."

"He yours?"

"Yeah, he's mine."

Raising her eyebrows and letting out a breath, she noted while pulling her gloves on and beginning to examine his most obvious injuries, "I bet he's just _great_ for your blood pressure. Did you do these stitches?"

Karen nodded, somehow both comforted and intimidated by the woman's presence, "Yeah, he taught me. One time he couldn't reach."

"Well, vigilantes are the ultimate do-it-yourselfers. Makes sense," Claire offered, nodding at the work before her. "Not bad for a journalist. They'll do the job. So, what am I here for?"

Matt took over then, "He took a hit to the head and somebody drugged him. We're not sure how long he's been out, so…"

"Yeah, calling the nurse when previous head trauma includes a bullet to the brain is probably a good idea. I'm not crazy about moving him, but now that he's not bleeding from all over I'd rather have some actual room. Matt, if you're fond of your sheets, get them off. Maybe put down a trash bag or something. Let's take the Punisher to bed, Karen."

She couldn't be sure if Claire Temple had gotten her dry sense of humor just from being a nurse who worked twenty-four hour shifts or if having to patch up vigilantes on her nights off had kicked it into a higher gear, but she appreciated the woman's honest way of looking at things. It reminded her of Frank a little bit.

Between the two of them, they got him upright and, even though his feet dragged a little, managed to keep his head still on the way to Matt's bedroom. Karen wondered fleetingly after they got him settled how many times the bed had held a body so injured. More than hers.

With nothing but willpower left to help her, she kept her eyes open as the nurse started really looking at him, muttering things to herself as she went. Only once did she pull away, surprise in her eyes, "…Jesus."

Noting where her hands were, Karen's mouth twisted into an understanding smile, "It's weird the first time you touch it, isn't it. The bullet hole."

Exhaustion made her add, "He doesn't like it when you touch it for too long."

"I'll keep that in mind," Claire replied, returning the bleak smile. "Why don't you sit down? You sewed him back together. You've finished your round."

Matt's hands on her arms, he guided her to a chair and she fell into the strange limbo that had her body asleep but her ears still working. Claire said a couple of things about pressure, pupil response, and already being tired of gunshot wounds to the head, but none of it brought her back to complete consciousness until the woman knelt before her and placed a hand on her knee.

Jerking violently, Karen frowned at the sun coming in the windows. When had it become morning?

The other woman smiled faintly at her shock. As soon as Karen's eyes went to Frank, though, her face straightened, "He's okay. He's pretty beat to hell, but something tells me you're used to that."

She gave another wry smile before going on in what Karen realized immediately was her nurse voice, "From what I can tell, the smack to his head wasn't that bad. His eyes are responding like they're supposed to and without some sort of scan that's the best sign we can get. Whatever drug they put in him is what put him on his ass. Just from his symptoms and knowing what he does, I'm going to guess that he went after somebody who transports humans when they shouldn't be. It looks like some sort of sedative to me. A _strong_ sedative. I already told Matt this, but if he doesn't wake up in the next six hours, give me another call. And put as much water in him as you can manage. Go down to the drug store and get some iron supplements. He's got a good clip of blood to build back up."

"And," Claire paused for emphasis, "by whatever persuasive power you've got over him, don't let him go back out for at least two weeks. The blood loss and cracked ribs are bad enough. I don't know what kind of shit this drug in him will do. Keep him home, get him to sleep, make him stay out of trouble."

Karen couldn't help but snort at that. Claire shrugged, "Do what you can, at least."

Pushing herself to her feet, she followed as the woman gathered up her medical supplies and slipped her bag back onto her shoulder. They quietly walked past Foggy asleep on the couch, Bully drooling on his chest, when Matt approached. Not sure what he had to say to the woman, Karen reached out a hand and squeezed her arm, "Thank you, Miss Temple. Really. Thank you so much."

The resigned smile was back when she shook her head, "Oh, we're way past titles, Karen Page. If you ever need help again, give me a call. Whether I'm willing or not, Vigilante General always seems to be open."

With a final nod of goodbye, she left Matt to walk her to the door. Smiling slightly at Foggy as Bully twitched in his sleep and the man snorted in response, she grabbed her phone from where she'd put it earlier that night. It was almost nine and she was an hour late to work.

She sent a quick email to Ellison saying she was sick before dropping the dying phone back on the table and staggering back to the bedroom and Frank. Just as she was passing the threshold, she heard Claire whisper fiercely, " _That's_ why you don't pull away from everyone, Matt. I mean, look at them. Not right this second, but that's happy. And what would've happened to him if she hadn't been worried?"

So tired she could hardly see straight, the statements meant very little to her she just continued on her path to the bed. When they were both conscious, she and Frank were going to have a discussion about some sort of communication when he was gone so she didn't have to do more forty-eight hour stints of complete terror, carrier pigeons or a burner phone or something, but her brain was far away from that.

All it had successfully settled on was that Frank was alive and he was going to stay that way. It wasn't a terribly high bar to be setting for a relationship that could smash her heart into tiny little pieces, but she could worry about getting him to pick up his shirts and leave her alone about keeping the spoon in the yogurt container when it was in the fridge later.

With both hands, she was holding onto what she had: two friends willing to help her in the middle of the night, a dog that approved of half of those friends, and a man she loved so much she almost couldn't breathe.

She grabbed the pillow not beneath Frank's head and pondered where to finally collapse for a moment. Matt's bed was bigger than hers, but Claire had deposited Frank smack dab in the middle. Not giving it a second thought, she dropped the pillow to the floor and collapsed after it a second later.

* * *

Not quite able to get his eyes open, Frank woke up with a groan. He could already feel new stitches holding his skin together and the sharp pain of broken ribs. The drugs Karen's sex traffickers had shot into him had really fucked him up. If one shot of it put him out that hard, he didn't even what to think about what it had done to the teenage girls they gave it to to keep them quiet and sedated. Thanks to Karen they hadn't had any girls to hurt in a couple of weeks. Thanks to him the nine guys who hadn't been smart enough to go underground after not being arrested would never hurt any girls again.

But shit his head hurt. "Son of a bitch."

He hadn't quite recognized the feel of a soft bed beneath him or his lack of shirt and pants, but the male voice that hit his ears had his eyes immediately open, "Here, drink this. You need lots of water."

With a somewhat manic gaze, he took in his surroundings, a fairly bare bedroom, door opening up into an equally sparse living room from what he could see, Red standing to his side with an opened bottle of water.

Answering his unasked question, the man said simply, "You're in my apartment, Frank. You'd been gone for three days and Karen asked me to find you. Now drink."

Again cutting him off, he added, "Yes, I get cranky when there are men in my bed."

He had to fight the urge to laugh because he knew his ribs wouldn't thank him, but it was a tad bit hard with the perfectly blank expression on Red's face. The unfocused eyes somehow added to it. He took the bottle of water and took a long swig that polished off about half of it. Voice hoarse, he finally got out, "Where is she? Where's Karen?"

Red tilted his head to the side and nodded toward the edge of the bed. Rolling over with a grunt, he peered over the edge to see her bright blonde head of hair spread out over a pillow on the floor. There was no way the rug was comfortable but he recognized the peaceful look on her face where she was stretched out on her side. It was a peace that only came from being so dead tired that anywhere with the space to lie down was sacred. It was a look every soldier knew well.

"I don't think she sleeps particularly well when she's worried."

His hand paused on its way down to touch her at Red's words. Sending him a sideways glance over his shoulder, he finished the movement and laid his battered hand on her head, running his thumb along the top of her ear. She inhaled more deeply in her sleep but didn't wake. It was probably strange, but he loved watching her sleep. He had with Maria, too, his kids. It was just so deep inside him comforting to know she was safe, that she was near and safe and his even though she was the one unconsciously making him stop what he was doing and just stare like an idiot. Nothing was going to hurt her while she was asleep and he was watching.

Behind him, he could feel the man's gaze even if he didn't really have one. It was in how he sat in that chair, shoulders tense and head tilted in a way that said even if he couldn't see it like everyone else, he knew exactly what was happening in front of him.

"You have something you want to say to me, Red? Nelson already gave me the talk about hurting her a few months ago. I'll believe in his threat more than any of yours."

"No," Matt replied, leaning forward and tossing a second bottle of water onto the blankets by his legs. "No, I don't have anything to say. I just have one thing to ask."

He paused and it finally made Frank look over his shoulder. The eye contact seemed to be what he was waiting for and he said, "Last year, you told me on that roof that we don't get to pick what fixes us, makes us whole, gives us purpose."

"I'm not really hearing a question in there, Altar Boy."

That was a lie. He knew where Red was going with it and from the way he smirked back at him from the chair, he knew it, too.

"As much as I hate to admit it, you were right. I probably couldn't walk away either, but what could've made me whole is dead and I haven't found anything else to replace it. I want to know about you. Is what fixed you then, made you whole and gave you purpose, is it the same thing that fixes you now, Frank?"

It got so quiet for a moment that Frank thought he could probably hear his own heart beating just as easily as Red could. Hand shaking slightly where it still rested against Karen's hair, he shook his head, "No, Red. Something else fixes me now."

Neither one of them needed him to say that _she_ was what fixed him now, filled up the empty spaces until he was something resembling a whole. Not his dead family. Not his completed vengeance. Not punishing people, even though it came damn close. No, it was Karen Page.

It went unsaid in the air that hung between them until Matt stood and shrugged, "You might want to give that a little thought at some point."

Red was telling him that if he really wanted to keep her, make her his purpose, at some point he might have to give up punishing the guilty. Not tonight, probably not tomorrow or even next month, but at some point he'd have to be ready to make that decision, to hold on with both hands or let go. Even if another part would put up a hell of a fight, something deep and quiet inside him already knew which purpose he'd pick if he still had the choice.

It was sleeping on the rug beside the bed, not dead in the morgue. The thought was both scary and comforting, probably because he hadn't given it the attention it deserved before that moment.

As he walked out of the room, Frank called quietly at his back, "You're not a pussy, but you are kind of an asshole, Red."

"Don't go sweet on me now, Frank. Save that for Karen."

Begrudgingly as it was, he probably needed to admit that he liked Red a little bit.

Sliding his hand down to her face, he pushed the hair away from Karen's eyes, waking her. She blinked in the way she had, taking in the whole room right before letting out a yawn. A few more had her staring up at him and a smile spreading across her face.

"Hi."

Feeling the tiredness of just having been up talking to Red starting to creep in, he smiled faintly back and tugged on her arm. She crawled up beside him, pressing a kiss to his mouth that was too desperately relieved for his liking. Downing the rest of his water when she offered it to him, he started on the second bottle before lying back down and bringing her with him. Not caring about his ribs or the superglued cut on his arm, he held her to him with both hands as he fell back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you enjoyed. :) Tomorrow is the last chapter.


	12. December

"No, you have to pick out wrapping paper."

Beside her, Frank raised an eyebrow. "What's it matter? It'll just get torn up anyway?"

Karen rolled her eyes and nodded emphatically at the large display in front of them, "Because the wrapping paper is half the fun. Now pick one."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a quiet chuckle, tightening the hold he had on her waist before reaching out and picking a roll at random.

"That's mostly white. The present will show through."

"Are you sure _you_ don't just want to pick it out, beautiful Karen?"

She bumped him gently with her shoulder, careful of his recently healed ribs, and smiled, "Yes, now pick a better one."

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow and she just fixed him with one in return. She stared him down until a his mouth quirked up in a smirk and he looked at her with the stare that made her toes tingle, that said he cared and he loved that she was _his_ beautiful Karen and he was taking her to bed as soon as they got back to the apartment.

With the snow coming down outside, she'd had walking around in it before it got dirty and slushy in mind, but that could be put off. Getting back to the apartment sounded _much_ better.

Closing the small space between them, she pressed a kiss to his mouth, one that lasted just long enough that she could taste the black coffee on his tongue and feel his fingers tighten on her waist. Pulling away, she nodded to the wrapping paper again. "Clock's ticking, Marine. The store closes in fifteen minutes."

He grumbled under his breath.

As he actually put some thought into his choice, she readjusted the box under her arm. She had no idea which child out there was going to receive the present picked out for Lisa Castle by her father, but she hoped that some of the love went along with it. It was a corny sentiment but not one she could banish from her mind as she walked hand-in-hand around the toy store with Frank, watching him choose presents his children would've liked to then give to charity.

Grabbing a roll with green and red stripes, he didn't give her the option of approving it before turning and heading for the checkout. Rolling her eyes, she just grabbed a thing of tape and followed after him. She could already tell he was going to be a horrible present-wrapper.

As they left the store, he hunched his shoulders against the cold and noted, "I miss the desert."

Though that was as close to complaining as he got, Frank wasn't overly fond of snow and winter. Smirking slightly and snaking an arm around his waist, she leaned more heavily against him.

* * *

That night she woke up to Bully twitching at her feet. Immediately, she felt the lack of heat at her back. Peeking an eye open, she looked across the apartment to find him. He was where he'd been the night before.

After a week of being out of commission—it was supposed to have been two because of his cracked ribs, but Frank Castle was nothing if not stubborn—he'd been gone for two weeks, making up for lost time he'd said. Something he said daily on the burner phone he called her on to prove that he wasn't dead. Given what she heard about when she'd gotten to work that morning, his field trip was actually taking down the remnants of the sex traffickers she'd exposed who'd gone underground. She doubted any more of the Ukrainians would be coming stateside for a while.

Waiting for some contacts to get back to her, she'd been sitting on the couch painting her toenails of all things when he walked through the door, clean, bruised, and so obviously tired. But not _too_ tired. Ever since they'd gotten to that point, he was almost religious about taking her to bed when he'd been gone for more than the wee hours of the morning. Not a bit of her minded.

She'd woken up alone around three and after some bleary searching had found him leaning against the couch and staring up at the little Christmas tree that hadn't been there when he left. That night, she'd let him be. She couldn't see his face, but she could just tell in her stomach that she should stay in bed. He was figuring stuff out on his own, actually letting the feelings make it through his armor. That had been then. Not tonight.

Rummaging around on the floor with one hand, she found a shirt and pulled it over her head. The line between what were her pajamas and Frank's shirts had blurred dramatically in the last few months and it made her smile. It felt so blessedly normal, her stealing his clothes to sleep in, him having all of one messy habit that kept them in little piles on the floor for a few days. Tugging on the thermal sleeves until her hands poked out the cuffs, she silently walked over and folded down onto the floor beside him after reheating herself a mug of old coffee in the microwave.

The Christmas tree was just a tiny little thing from the drugstore down the street that fit on the counter and would probably be dead by February, but it was more than she'd had the year before when she came home from Matt telling her he was Daredevil and it was his fault she'd been kidnapped by ninjas. She liked it better this way. She'd always been a fan of the multicolored lights and the majority of the string that hadn't fit on the tree was wound around its base. There hadn't really been much room for ornaments either, except the skull one that Foggy had given her early as a joke and a few generic others.

The two wrapped presents beside it were almost bigger than it was. Instead of names on the tags attached to them, they said Girl and Boy Ages 8-10.

Looking at the lit up tree, she wondered which Frank was looking at, the tree or the presents. As they walked around the stores when she got home purposely early from work, he'd talked about his family's Christmases, about trees and stockings and movies and Santa. She didn't think that was going to happen again at the moment. As she sat down and leaned against him, his arm came up to wrap around her shoulders. Silently, she rested her head against his, sipping her coffee.

She knew the day had hit him like a ton of bricks, or maybe a bullet to the head in his case. He hadn't really been in a frame of mind the year before to think about Christmas and what it meant…or really anything other than the fact his family was dead and he wasn't, that there were men out there responsible and his being alive might as well mean something.

She'd spent enough nights telling him 'not tonight' and sobbing in his arms after it was tonight that there was no way she'd begrudge him a few late hours staring at the Christmas tree because it wasn't the one he last remembered. That…and he was happier. She'd never actually asked, but she knew he was happier than he'd been a year ago, even six or eight months ago.

Holy shit, so was she. Karen was sitting on the floor with lukewarm coffee and her Frank who was truly going through his first Christmas without his murdered family. That was still better than the year before and plenty of ones before it, without contest. She was just content compared to a year ago when she was kidnapped by ninjas and came home to find Frank Castle sitting on her fire escape. She had no idea what January would bring, what ridiculousness would find its way into their lives, but it was so inexplicably comforting that for at least that night she was happy with her life, with who she was and who else was in it. It was a liberating feeling.

Since August, she'd had the need to ask Ben if this was how he'd done it, stayed sane while doing what they did for decades. If having his wife was what kept the fear, loneliness, and bone deep exhaustion away enough that the need for truth won every time without fail.

Warmth seeping into her, having the stupid vision of Ben looking at her with the expression that said she knew the answer, she was close to asleep when the rumble of Frank's voice woke her back up.

"I love you."

She blinked up at him but he hadn't looked away from the tree. She knew he loved her. She'd known for months, felt it in her stomach and when he looked at her with the stare that made her toes tingle. Deep in her chest, she knew that she wasn't some kind of replacement for the family he'd lost. She wasn't a substitute. She'd just come after. She wasn't worried about that, even if he'd never said the words out loud until that moment. She hadn't either but it felt like a pretty good time. Smiling, she squeezed the arm around her with her free hand.

"I love you, too."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and squeezed her shoulders.

"Why did you come back?" The question was one she'd wondered about for almost a year, but she hadn't actually taken the time to ask. Feeling him shift to look down at her, she added, "After Valentine's Day, why did you come back every week?"

"I was worried, about you and the look on your face when you told me 'not tonight'. You'd believed in me enough to keep me human once. I figured I owed you one. And...I got lonely." He shrugged against her, "I hadn't thought that was going to be a problem."

Ignoring the chill from the floor on her bare legs, she rolled her eyes slightly and said with a smile, "You're not a monster, Frank."

"No, ma'am. Not tonight." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Not with you beside me, beautiful Karen."

He was being purposely cliché and she swatted at his leg, "You hush. You sound like Foggy."

"Better Nelson than Red." Getting somewhat serious again, he pulled her up onto his lap and noted, "No, I'm just the asshole making you sit on the cold floor in the middle of the night because my head won't get quiet."

"I don't mind," she said with a shrug. "Not with you beside me, beautiful Frank."

"Okay, now you hush. That shit's _not_ going to stick."

Karen just laughed as his arms wrapped around her, he stole a drink of her coffee, and they both went back to silently staring up at the Christmas tree as the snow came down harder outside. It would be slushy and brown by the morning, but Hell's Kitchen could be silent and beautiful on the other side of the window for one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus do I stand tall upon the Kastle I have built. :D Thanks so much for reading everyone, drop a comment if the desire takes you, and I hope you've enjoyed. I'll probably get slower about it because I'm terrible, but I'll still make sure to reply to comments. Now I'm going to go and figure out this whole tag thing, lol.


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